Specimen
by FoibleNoteworthy
Summary: The Avengers' youngest team member went missing 18 months ago, and when they finally found him, he wasn't quite the person he remembered. Rated T for gore, language and suicide attempt...s. Might go up to M, I'm not sure about how things are rated.
1. The Red in his Eyes

**A/N:** **Apologies** **to anyone who came here looking for more Merlin - don't worry, I'm still writing that but this would not leave my brain so I had to get rid of it. At the mo I'm trying to write a thousand words a day, but I can't say what I'll be writing. Regular uploads (twice a week, maybe) are my plan. At the very least expect something every Sunday (as long as the summer hols are about).** **Anyway, here's the story:**

Nobody dared leave the teenager alone on the sofa. Nobody said how they feared he would just disappear again. Nobody spoke as he slept, not wanting to wake him, even though they longed to talk to him.

Somebody was watching him at any given moment.

When the slightest movement indicated the end of his sleep, they crowded around the couch, silent so they wouldn't disturb him even though they thought he was _taking far too long_ and he _really should have already woken up._

Another movement, and a hand came up to rub at his face. He sat up, eyes covered by the hand. They moved back in unison, giving him space, crushing eachother in their eagerness to remain as close to him as possible.

He moved his hand away and opened his eyes.

Peter's eyes are wrong. The thought is identical in everyone. What they noticed first wasn't the colour, the wrong colour _(they should be blue, why are they brown, where did those red chips come from?),_ it was the expression, the widening at the sight of them, his friends, the vaguest hint of what might have been fear.

But that was ridiculous. Peter was, of course, overjoyed to see them. The shift backwards in his seat, the eyes _(the wrong colour, the wrong expression)_ flicking between each of them, the flat line of his mouth - they meant nothing.

He'd been missing for over a year, of course he was acting a little bit strange.

The identical thoughts came again, each one instructing them to break the silence, which immediately became a cacophony of overlapping voices. Peter shifted away again, arms clenching the seat cushions, cornered by the arm and back of the sofa.

The red chips in his eyes grew larger, until they matched the brown in size. Peter bit his lip and the chips stayed still, but the struggle was obvious to anyone who wanted to see it.

And at that moment, nobody did.

After what must have been a millennium, they noticed he'd stayed silent. They acknowledged the fear in his eyes, in his posture. They all took a step back, then settled themselves on the sofa around him. They didn't mind that he was so overwhelmed.

Natasha sat on one side of him, and Clint shifted him over so he sat on his other side wrapping an arm around his shoulders. Peter looked a little bit squashed but it wasn't like he'd care.

They broke into conversation around him, deciding to let him stay quiet until he felt ready. Eventually, the red in his eyes shrank, throbbing slightly when someone laughed too loudly. Dinner time came and no one could be bothered cooking, so pizza appeared twenty minutes later.

They flocked to the counter at the sound of the doorbell. It took them a moment to notice that Peter was still on the sofa.

"C'mon, Pete, pizza," Clint grabbed hold of his arm and dragged him into his chair. Peter was now sat between Tony and Steve.

Steam rose slowly and the scent of cheap cheese filled the room. It was greasy and had a ridiculous plastic texture and probably contained more than a few disgusting things, but the team stuffed their faces like starving men.

Slices were shoved on Peter's plate when he made no move to feed himself. The boxes were empty before they noticed that those slices remained untouched.

That was when they got concerned.

"Pete," Steve said. "You've not said a word all night. Are you okay?"

Peter stared at the table, not seeming to have heard Steve.

He flinched violently when a hand came to his shoulder. Tony edged back, whipping his hand towards himself at the sight of Peter's harsh glare.

"Look," Natasha said, trying to be slow and diplomatic, as Peter couldn't handle much else at the moment, "we're all a bit worried about you." Peter was staring at the table again.

"You're quiet and you haven't eaten. I know that a lot will have happened to you. I know that you want to sort it out. I know that you might not want to talk about it yet. That's fine. We just want you to know that we're here. Okay?"

Peter didn't look up.

"Peter?"

A few people looked at the same spot on the table as him, trying to see if there was a reason why he was staring there.

There wasn't.

"Peter, look at me."

His hands were clenched together, sharp nails cutting through his skin.

Natasha took a gentle hold of his chin.

The red chips in his eyes grew again, and he kept himself from looking at her, even as she pointed his face towards her. His eyes were wary, indecisive.

Clint was frustrated by the one sided exchange, and thought that Peter just needed a little push to start. "Pete, would you quit being such an asshole!?"

The result was instant.

Clawed hands fixed around the archers neck, sticky feet propelling the two across the table to the floor. Clouded red eyes met clear blue. More red slipped through the teen's fingers, slipped from Clint's throat, as a growl slipped past pointed teeth shown clearly in a snarl.

Hands pulled at tense shoulders. Lines of red appeared on the side of Clint's neck as his assailant was yanked off of him.

The teen with red eyes and skin under his fingernails twisted, grabbing his attacker's shoulders and flipping to hit him in the shoulder blades, knocking the man, Steve, on top of Clint, and firing the boy towards his next victim.

Claws swept past red hair, digging into shoulders, while hidden claws on a slim foot raked across a woman's belly, through muscle but not quite reaching organs. She doubled over in pain and the teen used her as a springboard, slamming into a slight man with brown hair who obviously had no combat experience.

It was an unfortunate mistake.

Just as the teen's eyes had gone red, the man's skin turned green. A second passed before a meaty fist clutched a skinny leg and forced the leg's owner onto the table.

Plates smashed and cut into the teen's skin. He writhed against the hold of the emerald giant but he couldn't free himself. Claws raked uselessly against the bulletproof flesh.

A man with a goatee and a needle startled the flailing teen, but there was nothing he could do to keep him and his needle away from his neck.

Moments later the teen's eyes were closed and his expression was peaceful. The avengers stood up and Bruce went off to calm down. Only Clint and Natasha were injured but neither seemed to notice. All eyes were on Peter, who slept and appeared calm.

Nobody knew what to do.

 **That was a thing I wrote. Things will be explained but tell me if you're confused cos I know the whole story already and so do not get confused by missing details. Comment or whatever if you have questions (bearing in mind that you're meant to be about as confused as the avengers are).**

 **Bye til next time!**


	2. The Red on his Wrists

**Trigger warning: suicide attempt (spoilers, sorry)**

When the teen woke the second time he was greeted by wary figures, the closest of which was more than a metre away. They were speaking to him. A cuff around his wrist fixed his arm to his chair, but gave him mostly free movement.

He noticed none of this, as he was too focused on the cold feeling of metal around his neck and the cold feeling in his blood of his missing powers.

He had known it would happen eventually. In all honesty, he was used to the collar, to the slightly stiff feeling of being seperated from his only defence. To being helpless.

He was even used to being terrified of imminent pain. Why else would they keep him like this, ready for torture? Absentmindedly, he ran his nails across the bare skin of his left forearm, drawing blood and reminding himself that the Disciples could cause far worse pain than these people, that he couldn't give into their demands no matter what.

He knew firsthand that they would do whatever it took to assure his loyalty. He knew that each scrap of information forced out of him was another hour of pain.

He knew that if he got it in his head that these people could offer him anything outside of his work for The Disciples they would take away the only thing he had made out of his life - his _Secret_. They didn't know about his _Secret_ but he would lose it all the same, and that terrified him far more than anything else.

However, at that moment, the sinking feeling of knowing that giving in to the pain would only equal more pain, that was unfamiliar. That was what scared him.

"Pete, are you even listening?" Tony was at his wit's end. The kid had...had _hulked out,_ for lack of a better word - his claws, his eyes, his anger, his savagery, they were all new and terrifying - but now he was acting like a zombie. Like nothing had even happened.

His only movement was the rhythmic stroking of his wrists, presumably something to keep him calm. He didn't need to worry about that, the collar would keep his powers from hurting anyone. He hated to use it, he really did, but it was the only thing that could regulate Peter's highly unstable powers, and they couldn't let him freak out again.

Natasha was draped over a loveseat, bandages around her front clearly visible, but at least not red. Clint had a bandage around his neck, but Peter had missed his vital arteries and instead dug his claws into minor ones. Bruce was the worst affected, actually. He had left to compare his blood with Peter's, afraid to be in the same room with the kid in case he hurt him again.

Steve kept talking to Peter in a calm, soothing voice. Everything he said seemed to be spot on, but Peter really did appear to be deaf.

Peter suddenly stopped stroking his wrist and covered it with his sleeve. He then pulled his knees in further so that he was in a ball and turned his head away from everyone.

Sighing, Tony go up and went over to the kid, making sure that his movements were slow so he didn't startle him.

Peter didn't respond.

"Pete."

The kid was quiet.

Tony placed a hand on his shoulder. Peter shoved him, hissing and baring his pointed teeth. Tony leapt away, then felt upset to have shown fear, certain it would just distress Peter further.

Sitting at the minimum safe distance, Tony said, "Nobody is angry with you. This isn't your fault. We can teach you to control this."

Peter growled quietly.

"We're not moving until you at least respond to us."

Peter stared into his elbow, pulling himself into a tighter curl that must have been painful.

"Pete, just say something, one word, and then we're done with this, okay?"

Peter turned to look at him, his expression blank. The only emotion that could be seen was in the red chips in his eyes, which were the same size as the brown.

"We only want to help you, Peter." Tony offered him his hand, wanting to comfort his friend. Peter's free hand remained around his knees.

Peter opened his mouth, his eyes wide and feeling for a second, the red chips shrinking, before the coldness returned and he closed it. His eyes regained their crimson and he turned back into the couch, shutting them out again.

Tony managed to blink away his tears at the dismissal. "Okay, kid, we can try again tomorrow. We're gonna watch a movie now, you want to join in?"

Peter didn't respond.

"You seem pretty tired, do you want to go to bed?"

He got a shrug in response, but took it as a yes.

Steve got up and removed Peter's cuff. The teen got up, staring at the floor and hugging himself for reassurance - some things never change - and followed Steve to his room.

Tony heard Steve's voice, low and encouraging, though he couldn't make out his words. The soldier came out a minute later, shaking his head. Tony rubbed his eyes, feeling old and tired.

"Jarvis?"

"Yes, Mr Stark?"

"Let me know if Pete...I don't know...just keep me posted."

"Of course, Sir."

They put on a film that nobody felt like watching and sat in silence.

Half an hour into the movie they stirred as the ceiling spoke again.

"Sir!"

Everybody leapt out of their seats, looking at Peter's door in unison.

"Mr Parker is severely injured."

They needed no further encouragement. They burst into Peter's room to find it empty, though the bathroom door was open.

Peter looked up at them, eyes wide with terror, when they entered, but they were too preoccupied by the blood on his wrists to notice. Hurriedly, Peter tightened his grip on a shard of glass and cut more lines in his pale skin. Blood flowed swiftly from his palm and from the deep scarlet slashes.

"Nonononononono." Tony threw himself forwards and pulled the glass away from him. Peter struggled, but, cut off from his strength by the collar, he could do nothing when Steve pinned his injured wrist and forced his right hand away. His hand opened and the glass shattered, the noise strangely loud.

Steve pressed his weight on Peter's wrist to stop the circulation. Peter's struggles grew weaker, which could have been a good thing if his face hadn't gone white and slack.

Tony said every reassuring thing he found think of, clutching Peter in a panic. Blood smeared on his expensive suit. Peter fought and growled and struggled with all his lessening strength, but they refused to let him die.

Bruce came in with a medical pack - he must have been alerted by Jarvis as well - and immediately injected something into Peter's neck, making him go limp. He cleaned his arm, stitched it, and wrapped it tightly in thick bandages. Almost as an afterthought, he dealt with the cut on his hand, which, despite being large enough to need stitches, seemed insignificant.

Unable to think straight, Tony kept his fingers pressed to Peter's chest, almost sobbing with relief every time he felt his heartbeat. Losing Peter after looking for him for so long was unthinkable.

When Bruce had finished his ministrations, Peter was carried back to his spot on the sofa, and his uninjured arm was cuffed there. Bruce went off to get some kind of blood substitute to give to Peter (his awkward genetics meant that normal blood wouldn't do the trick), and left the rest of them to wonder what they were supposed to do.

 **Yeah, so this is a thing I did. I'm very sorry.** **I think. Let me** **know what you think if you feel like reviewing.**


	3. The Red of Pain

The flutter of Peter's eyelids was the most beautiful thing Tony had ever seen. It meant that he was okay.

The fear in Peter's eyes however, was the most horrifying thing Tony had ever seen. It meant that he was not okay.

Strangled, coughing breaths, desperate pulling on the cuff, white bandages turning red with the strain, and, worst, hopeful glances towards the balcony were all evidence of Peter's terror.

Tony placed a hand on Peter's shoulder. The teen pulled away but Tony went with him, unsure of how to reassure the kid. He decided to start with, "Nobody is angry at you," which caused Peter to stiffen.

He tightened his grip on the boy's shoulder, moving closer to offer his warmth as a reassurance. Peter didn't resist.

After a minute had passed and Peter's breathing no longer resembled sobs, Tony asked in a whisper, "Why did you do it?"

Peter was silent.

"Kid, that's not..." Tony explained, "You can't...this isn't something you're going to try again." He gave the boy his most firm expression, hoping that that would be about to keep him from even considering it.

Peter didn't respond.

Tony shifted away, guiltily pleased by the kid's slight protesting movement that meant that Peter had been comforted by his presence.

"Peter?" Tony crouched in front on him, directly in his line of sight. He was so low down as to almost be sprawling: Peter refused to look anywhere other than the ground. "Peter, promise me you won't try that again."

Peter looked at Tony deliberately for the first time since he had been found. His eyes were a tangled mess of confusion, fear, sadness and anger. The chips in his eyes shrank to be almost invisible. Suddenly, he looked like a boy his age.

"Promise?" Tony prompted.

Peter gave him a slow nod and Tony smiled.

Three hours later found them watching Star Wars together. Peter was settled comfortably with his head on Tony's lap and his feet on Steve's. Natasha and Clint chose to sit on the floor in front of him and Bruce was in the seat nearest Peter and Tony.

Tony wouldn't stop grinning - Peter was as big a fan of these movies as he was, and, even better, Steve had never seen them before. Tony wondered how that could possibly have happened, but opted to rectify the issue rather than berate the soldier for being _that_ uncultured.

Tony wasn't sure what had brought about the turnaround in Peter's behaviour - he was responsive and friendly, even eating! He still hadn't said a word, but the team all understood that it was best not to ask him why. Not yet anyway.

They finished watching Episode IV and went to get lunch - pizza again - which had been delivered by a rather gangly and nervous teenager.

Peter's cuff was removed so that he could move to the table. Tony, Clint and Natasha moved ahead while Steve remained at the teen's shoulder. He rubbed at his injured wrist through the bandage, evidently in thought.

Steve tried to think of the right thing to say in response to his obvious thoughts, but was startled out of his ruminations by Peter's sudden sprint towards the window.

Steve paused in confusion for a half-second before _the window_ leapt to the forefront of his mind and he understood what Peter was doing. He leapt into action, already feeling too slow - even without his powers, Peter was quick.

Adrenaline gave Steve no advantage - the kid was flooded with it as well - but his longer legs and inhuman speed allowed him to reach Peter just as he leapt off the balcony, wrapping an arm around his waist and hauling him back, kicking and wriggling, not even letting go when he was safely indoors and surrounded by his teammates.

Tony rushed in front of the teen, feeling ready to scream at him until he saw the tears in his eyes.

He joined Steve in holding the crying teen, wanting to comfort him, even though he was so confused - Peter was safe and happy here, why would he keep trying this?

When he voiced his last thought aloud Peter made an odd gesture that he couldn't understand.

But Clint did.

The archer knelt in front of the teen, gesturing back to him, while everyone except Natasha and Peter just looked confused.

Peter signed back to Clint, looking calmer now that he could communicate.

Clint's expression was calm and compassionate as he moved his arms in a seemingly random manner. Evidently, he was trying to reassure Peter.

Clint's expression twisted with anger as Peter made more of his odd little movements.

The team remembered he was mostly deaf. The questions then became: _How did Peter know sign language?,_ _Why was he using sign language anyway?_ and, most worrying, _What was he saying that upset Clint so much?_

Peter's movements grew more frantic as his expression became one of fear. A twisted bitterness that didn't belong on his youthful face appeared as he nodded at something. Clint's only reaction was the helpless slump of his shoulders.

When the signed conversation finished - it seemed to take forever but was only a few sentences - Clint straightened, left the group, grabbed the nearest object, broke it, and threw the remains at the window. This action was repeated several times with no end in sight, as his movements became more and more violent.

Laziness and unusual humour were common flaws found in the archer. No one had expected him to have a temper like that. Truthfully, he didn't have one at all. But there is only so far someone could go before they broke things.

What Clint had just discovered was enough to make anyone want to do far, far worse, which he also quite felt like doing to a few people Peter had refused to name.

"Clint?" Natasha knew the archer best and was the first to break his silence.

Clint turned back to them, breathing heavy and eyes ringed with red emotion. The team's desire to understand the mute exchange grew and shrank simultaneously in the face of its effects.

They knew that they didn't want to know this, but they _needed_ to know this.

When Clint spoke, it was one word, filled with more revulsion than the prankster had ever shown. The emotion was worse than his hatred when he broke free of Loki's control, than his desperation when he saw Ultron almost level Sokovia, worse than his regret every time he had seen anybody die around him.

Clint spoke, and the team all flinched, turning to Peter with wide-eyed unison as his red chips grew again at the word:

"Torture."

 **A/N up to this point I've been putting out chapters pretty quickly - this might not continue. For one thing I've got other stories in the works and for another thing I've got to write chapters that come before chapters I've already written.**

 **Here's my proposition: I can put up everything I've got so far fairly regularly, followed by flashbacks showing what Peter's been up to. I had planned to have a chapter with the Avengers, then a flashback that works with it. Alternatively, I can put up all of the Avengers chapters I've written, then a half dozen flashback chapters.**

 ** _I_** ** _know authors notes are boring but please read the next bit, at least (unless it's, like, 2020 or something, then you're excused).)_**

 **Please review and let me know which one you'd prefer (quick but with one giant block of flashbacks, or slower** **but in the best order). I'm not putting anything else up without, at leastsome input (thus my slight cliffhanger).**


	4. The Red of a Button

**_Eighteen months ago._**

"Was that fun?"

My breath catches and I can't make it work again.

The button glows red directly in front of my face. The man's thumb hovers over it, a centimetre away. "I asked you a question. Was that fun?"

"No, Sir." My voice cracks.

"You don't want me to do it again?"

"No, Sir."

"Are you sure?" His thumb is resting on the button. The glare of its light paints his fingers crimson. I resist the urge to struggle. I know it's pointless. I can't break free.

"Yes, Sir."

"I don't think you should judge something so harshly after only experiencing it once, Specimen. I think you should try it again."

My stomach lurches. _"Please."_ The word falls out automatically.

"I didn't give you permission to speak," he smiles, his thumb resting on the button. "The first rule is that you don't speak. Don't you respect this rule?"

"I do, Sir." I'm pulling at my wrists now, eyes wide, but it's no use.

"I didn't give you permission to speak. Don't you know what happens when you speak out of turn? _Let me show you."_ His thumb presses down.

 ** _Present._**

"You're safe here - why did you try this again?" Clint wasn't really expecting Peter to respond to Tony, and was ready to dismiss his movement as one of the teen's random spasms.

Except that he recognised the word.

"Pain."

He crouched down in front of his friend, his hands automatically moving to reply in his native tongue.

"What pain?"

Peter's eyes widened in surprise, evidently he hadn't expected anyone to understand him, but the red chips became slimmer. Clint looked at him expectantly.

With a sigh and downcast eyes, Peter signed, "They'll hurt me when I get back. For being captured, for not having escaped yet, to remind me who's boss. I'm...just really scared and I don't want that to happen."

Clint attempted to reassure the teen. "Organisations like that make empty threats all the time - that's just something they said to keep you in line. They wouldn't hurt you." The archer had no idea if this was true, none of them knew anything about Lightfall and their methods, but the truth was less important than keeping Peter from trying to kill himself again.

"It's not an empty threat," Peter responded. Clint sagged - how could he reassure the kid? "I know what they'll do because they did it before."

That got Clint's attention. His signs became immediately angry. "Who? I'll kill them."

The red chips swelled. "I can't - I'm sorry - if I tell you anything-"

"They'll hurt you, I get it."

Peter nodded in response.

Overwhelmed with frustration and helplessness Clint stalked away, grabbing the nearest item he could lift - some ceramic jar thing - crushing it and throwing it at the window, smashing the glass. A few seconds later it smashed the glass of a building across the street, each shard breaking an individual item in the room. Clint reached for the next thing, and another, and another, each object he grabbed taking on imagined faces of people who dared to hurt his friend.

"Clint?"

Tempted as he was to ignore the problem and keep breaking things, the archer turned around to face his teammates. He knew he had to tell them, but he had trouble figuring out how to say it. Eventually he managed to muster one word:

 _"Torture."_

 **A/N Apologies cuz the tenses and persons (is that the term for like first/third person whatever? idk) for the flashbacks will be iffy - some in first present and some in third past. This is cuz I wrote some stuff over a year ago and I did it in first person. Most of the flashbacks are from a different fanfic I never published that focused on what happened to Peter rather than the after effects of his experiences. Anyway I decided to write more rather than do boring editing that just switched around the 'I's to 'he's and the 'does's to 'did's if that makes sense. It's super boring and unproductive. It's a bit odd to read but easy to adjust to and allows me to write more stuff more quickly so I decided it was best. Besides, first-person present quite suits Bug's - I mean, Peter's - chapters.**

 **(Muahahaha!)**

 **Also I'm going in holiday and although I will continue to write I can't guarantee a regular schedule. I can promise one chapter within the next two weeks, and I plan so so more than that (two to four) but don't expect more than one, because you may be disappointed.** **Anyway, bye.**


	5. The Red of a River

**A/N I know** **last chapter was kinda short so I did this. I'd advise reading it in the dark.** **Also** **warnings! - Serious gore, torture of a minor and general chills.** **(Seriously, read it in the dark. Alone.)**

 **Eighteen** ** _months and one day ago._**

A man smirked into his camera lens. He didn't always record his sessions, but felt this one was important enough to warrant the attention. Across the room his Prey awoke with a muffled gasp. This was a very special prey, though he didn't look it. Young, blue eyes, brown hair, slim frame. He looked very breakable. Barely a challenge.

Despite that, his bosses had promised him that this one would be a lot of fun. A strong sense of spirit, a treasure trove of information and, most importantly, a healing factor.

 _A healing factor._

Unfortunately, it was switched off at the moment, along with the rest of Prey's powers. The man had been warned not to give Prey his powers back and the man had listened. He had also been warned not to do any permanent damage, but he knew their limits when it came to ' _permanent damage_ ', and knew how far across that line he could step before _he_ was the one strapped down to a table.

He stepped towards Prey, making sure his feet tapped on the floor in a slow and steady rhythm. White light shone above the prey, making his skin seem so pale and flawless, his bare chest a perfect canvas for his scalpel.

When Prey didn't react to his presence, he made his first brush stroke.

Prey bit his lip but remained silent as he painted red on his shoulder. Crimson beads followed the curve of his arm and dripped into the table below him. White skin split into two, the prey's upper arm became two alabaster islands seperated by a scarlet river.

Prey squirmed slightly when the river spilt into many winding streams that flowed down to his elbow, twirling off into beautiful patterns.

Sweat formed on Prey's brow when the river poured across his chest. It was deeper here, and wider and flowed so much more slowly. It scraped its way over ribs, pulling away fragments of bone, like rocks at a riverbed. Muscle clung to the man's paint brush, its attachment to the rocks of rough bones having been severed.

The man stood quietly, painting, enjoying his art. He hadn't had a chance to do this for so long, to enjoy the coppery tang in the air and watch his prey whimper - usually his prey was begging by this stage. The silence was refreshing and unbroken.

It shattered far too quickly.

The man stilled, his paintbrush twisting in a groove between two rocks, when Prey pulled in a gasping breath. The man knew that sound very well. He was almost disappointed that his fun had to end so soon, but he knew he still had one last task to do for the boffins before he could even start his questioning.

"Are you ready to acknowledge me now?" The man asked Prey. Prey looked up, but the man's face was shadowed by the bright light above him.

The man smirked as he heard a creak of leather - Prey was getting scared, he was pulling at the straps that forced him to stay in place.

He would get nowhere.

The man sighed dramatically when he realised Prey wasn't going to respond, though his sigh wasn't real at all - he was pleased that Prey's ' _spirit_ ' had not been exaggerated.

The man stepped out of sight, taking his time in finding his special powder. Prey couldn't turn his head to look at him, and was no doubt worrying about what was coming next.

As he very well should have. The powder never failed.

The man found his bottle full of powder, the colour of rusty sand and the texture of flour, and stepped back over to Prey, as slow as he could bear with his excitement welling up inside him. Prey flinched slightly at the sound of his footsteps.

He took a pinch of his powder between his fingers and dropped it into the red river.

Noise filled the previously silent room - the creak of leather straps, the faintest sizzling of the river and, beautifully, a scream.

The man could tell a lot about Prey from his first scream. It was controlled and defined - a sign that he was used to screaming - but it was... surprised? Prey had honestly thought that he would manage not to scream.

The man laughed at that. His laugh was low and condescending, but most obviously pleased. When he was finished laughing and Prey was finished screaming, the man said, "Some have told me it feels like fire - others say it's more like acid. Just for my notes, what's your opinion?"

Prey didn't reply.

"You're being awfully quiet, you know - we haven't even started yet." The man paused, exaggerating the placing of one finger on his chin. " _Of course_ ," he gasped, "you want to be sure before you give your answer. That's very kind of you. Here, let me help you out, I'll give you another shot of it."

He held another pinch just above the deepest part of the river. "Here's a good spot, don't you think?"

Prey pulled at his straps again, wide eyes fixed on the man's fingertips.

"You do want me to do it again, don't you?" The man's voice was high and innocent, but only sounded patronising.

Prey shifted his head the slightest bit in reply, and the man knew he had him.

"You don't?" The man's voice was high with pantomime shock.

Prey moved his head again.

"Is that a 'yes' or a 'no', _Prey?"_ The man delighted in Prey's shiver.

"It's a ' _no_ '."

Prey's voice was so quiet it was almost imperceptible.

"Could you speak up?"

"I said ' _no_ '."

The man could hear Prey easily now. He smiled.

"What's the magic word, _Prey?"_

Prey swallowed. The man rubbed his fingers again and a few grains slipped into the river.

Prey whispered a "please".

The man didn't withdraw his fingers.

"I do appreciate your manners, _Prey_ , but we have a few things to get done before I can stop."

"What things?" Prey didn't seem to see the point in keeping quiet anymore.

"Firstly, just for the records, I need your full name, alias, age and affiliates."

Prey was silent. The man released the powder. Prey was less silent.

"That reminds me," the man said, watching Prey's blood curdle, then clot beneath the powder, "what was your opinion? Fire or acid?"

Prey was gasping slightly. The man left him to that and went over to his notes, which he had left open on the table. "Most people said fire, if that helps." He called to Prey.

When Prey still didn't answer he walked back over and offered him some more powder.

The reply of "acid" came immediately.

"Thank you." The man dipped his finger in the river and used it to mark down a tally on his notes. "That makes it a-hundred-and-eighty-one for acid and two-hundred-and-thirty-eight for fire." He shut his notebook with a snap and tossed it onto the desk he'd taken it from.

"I should probably just say that it's fire and have it done with, but it's nice to have a hobby, even within your job." The man then sighed and said, "Back to business. Name, alias, age and affiliates, if you please."

Prey was silent.

"Well..." the man drawled, "if you're going to be like that, I might as well get some work done while I'm waiting for you to stop being so inconsiderate." He fetched himself a larger knife and settled at Prey's side. The boffins had insisted on a few things, and this was the only way to get them what they needed (not that he was complaining).

He saw what he needed and began to trace out the shape with his scalpel, then peeled off the layer of skin he had cut free. This was laid on a metal dish beside the man.

Prey was making some general noises, but the man wasn't really paying attention to him.

The man used the bigger knife to cut through the muscles from underneath the skin, and then started to pull red flesh away from white bone. His hands became coated in the blood, which slicked the muscle. No matter how hard he pulled it refused to come free.

 _"Stop!"_ The cry came with no warning. The voice cracked halfway through the word.

"Excuse me?" The man looked at Prey and was delighted to see tear tracks on his face. Further inspection showed blood on his chin - he had bit his lip so hard it was bleeding.

"Please stop. I'll - I'll tell you but just stop." Prey pulled in a shuddering breath. " _Please_."

The man sighed - he still wasn't done. When he expressed this to his captive however, Prey just said, "It's Peter Parker. Spiderman. I'm sixteen. I work with the Avengers and SHIELD. What else do you want to know?"

"I thank you for the information, _Prey_ , but it still doesn't change the fact that I'm not done here."

"What?" Prey was becoming dull. The man sighed and explained himself again:

"Regardless of what you so or tell me, I still need these samples. The boffins made me promise to get them as soon as possible. I'm already cutting it a bit fine, so would you maybe mind not interrupting me until I'm finished?"

"Samples?"

Almost growling with frustration at Prey's slowness, the man explained, "The boffins need samples of different structures in your body because of your unusual DNA. I need to get some skin, muscle and bone."

Prey stiffened.

The man took this as a sign that he would finally shut up and continued to pull at the muscle coating his bottom left rib.

Prey cried and screamed but the man just ignored him and focused on the task at hand. Soon he had the muscle mostly free, though it didn't look as neat as he would have liked.

"Phew." The man paused to wipe his brow and catch his breath. "Almost done, _Prey_. Then we can get on to the fun stuff."

Prey just whimpered in response. Typical.

The man ran his hands over the shelves around the room looking for the next tool. The low lighting was good for intimidation, but it did cause problems when he went looking for things. He found his tool when part of its blade bit his searching hands. Sucking on his finger, he grabbed it and walked back over to Prey, pausing only to plug it in.

The man turned on his bone-saw, and delighted in Prey's gasp at the whirring.

The man allowed his joy to refill him, replacing his frustration. He took a deep breath, let it out, and positioned his saw at the base of the exposed rib.

Prey was struggling and yelling again. The man ignored him until, within his tearful ramblings, Prey cried out, "You can't do this!"

Anger flashed through the man. He tightened his grip on the saw, then dropped it, only realising it had landed on Prey when blood splattered onto his sleeve and Prey screamed, the saw easily slicing through the skin of his belly.

Sighing, the man grabbed the saw and threw it over his shoulder, not caring much about where it landed, which it did with a satisfying crack.

Returning his attention to Prey, who had fallen silent in the absence of immediate pain, the man snatched the scalpel from the table, and held it a hair's breadth Prey's eye, which widened at sight.

"I want to make one thing perfectly clear, _Prey_ ," the man spat at the boy, spittle spraying his face and dripping off the scalpel. "I _can_ do this. I can do whatever. I. Want. That's the point of this little exercise - I have absolute control and you have none. You can't even control what you will or won't tell me!"

The man placed a hand on Prey's throat, slowly tightening it. "You don't realise it yet, but you _belong_ to Lightfall now. Everything you say, everything you do - it will be on our orders, and ours alone. Free will isn't an option. _Understand?"_ He released Prey's throat, grinding his teeth impatiently as he waited for him to stop coughing.

"The hell is _Lightfall?"_ Prey's voice was rough from his strangling but the distain was still obvious.

"That was not the correct answer," the man said.

"Well, the answer is _no_." The man couldn't help grinning - _here_ was the spirit he had been promised!

In the absence of boredom, the man's voice regained it's previous calm. "What makes you say that?" The man knew Prey's answer, and had already planned how he would counteract it.

Prey sighed and rolled his eyes - he actually _rolled his eyes_ at the man. "They're called the _Avengers_. Y'know, earth's mightiest heroes, defeated Hydra and all of those guys ten times over."

The man nodded. "Indeed, the Avengers have beaten many great foes, those with more power than Lightfall possesses, but do you know what all of those enemies lacked?"

Prey just raised an eyebrow at his monologuing. The man suppressed his glee at the sass, it would make him appear unprofessional.

He paused in thought before speaking. "Let me put this another way. Have you ever _heard_ of Lightfall?"

" _Nope_ ," Prey popped the 'P'. "Shows just how big and important you guys are."

"I already admitted that we are small. So small that the Avengers haven't even _heard_ of us."

Prey's face fell slightly.

"So small that, when there's no evidence of when and how you ' _disappeared_ ', they will assume you were taken by Hydra and look no further than their regular enemies.

"Of course, this begs the question: how do you expect them to find you, when they've already decided where you are? I mean, when they can't find you in New York - you're not in some easy-to-find base underneath the city, by the way, you're in a highly secure bunker beneath 100 feet of snow in the middle of nowhere in Russian tundra - they'll just assume it was Hydra. When they can't find you in Hydra, they'll just look further into Hydra, or they'll search elsewhere, any organisation you can name, they'll check - destroy even. But they won't find you there."

Prey had visibly paled.

"Then we've got the added bonus of distracted Avengers and missing competition - we've got agents in several completely different organisations who will help us profit from the disarray. And, of course, those organisations have no idea about us. When they're attacked, we disappear and latch onto something else.

"Nobody sees us coming, nobody knows we exist, and nobody will ever find us." The man picked up his bone saw again. "Well, what I mean is, nobody will ever find _you_."

"Would you stop monologuing and just get this over with!?" Prey burst. "I get it, okay? You're going to torture me and then experiment on me and then kill me," Prey's voice was angry, but resigned. He had accepted what he believed to be his fate.

The man switched on his bone-saw, but found it broken. "You're not quite right on that, you know? I mean, two out of three, definitely, but you're not _really_ going to die."

"Either I am going to die or I'm not. Which is it?"

The man hunted for something else that would do the trick. "It's not quite as simple, or as easy, as that. If we've got an army of individuals with your powers running around, that would point arrows right at us. I've already established that that's not how we work. Besides, attempts to replicate your powers, historically, have ended badly.

"But we don't actually need to replicate your powers, we've got the perfect assassin right here." He walked over from his shelf and tapped Prey on the forehead for emphasis, though Prey's sudden sickly grey pallour told him that he had understood.

"The death thing, well, that needs explained as well, doesn't it? It just depends on your _definition_ of death. I mean, everything in here," he tapped Prey's forehead again, then went back to his shelf, calling over his shoulder, "all of your memories, they're going, but your body's still alive so...yeah, take from that what you will."

Prey was hyperventilating like a wimp. The man decided that he should wait before he told him what the boffins actually needed his DNA _for_ , and instead grabbed his hacksaw, seeing that that would suit his needs, though it would be a bit slower than the bone-saw. And messier.

He paused at that. Serious blood loss could count as _'permanent damage'_ or at least could get him into trouble. He glanced at the river and saw that it was still flowing.

He needed to clot the blood. He made a decision on how to deal with that - it _was_ what the powder was actually _for:_ fast healing and nerve stimulation. Worked a bit too quickly for his tastes though, and always left the most horrific scars. He fetched his powder and dumped a load in the river, paused to listen to the melody of screams, then set to work on the rib, reminding himself that he still needed to weld on the metal replacement after that.

Prey would not like that.

He dusted his hands with powder and grabbed the rib, sawing with one hand and wrapping his fingers around the white bone with the other. It was awkward and he cut a lot of flesh when he was aiming for bone, but he just covered it with powder and continued, twisting the bone whenever he felt the screams were too quiet, then pulling on it so that it cracked down the middle, marrow sliding out, and he could pull it free from Prey's body.

Prey passed out, his throat bloody from the volume of his screams. The man sighed and grabbed a needle of adrenaline - he couldn't leave Prey unconscious, now could be?

 **A/N I couldn't think of a clever way to end it. If you come up with something, please tell me so I can fix it - I'd've taken more time for it but I really wanted to get it out (are you happy now, Marhk?) so I left it.**

 **I am aware of some discrepancies - blue eyes, brown eyes and similar - but they will be explained. Hell, they've half been explained in this chapter. This was a lot of exposition. Hope you enjoyed.**

 **(Can I get a high five for writing 2,900 words? And I've got the next chapter _just_ needing editing so expect that within three days.)**


	6. The Laugh of a Man Who's Met These Reds

_"Torture."_

The team fell into breathless disbelief at the single word. Someone had hurt Peter. Someone had _hurt_ their youngest friend deliberately - badly enough to make him suicidal.

The team forced themselves not to start crying or breaking random objects in response to the information.

"Who?" Steve broke the silence.

Peter shook his head and signed again. Everyone looked at Clint.

"He doesn't want to say." Clint wanted to end it there, but their expressions demanded an explanation. "He's scared they'll hurt him if he says anything."

Pitiful eyes turned to the teenager, still held protectively by Steve and Tony. The team adjusted themselves, moving to the sofa so they could talk more comfortably. Nobody brought up the fact that they cuffed Peter again - they understood _why_ he was trying to kill himself, but that didn't mean he would stop.

"Peter you have to tell us something about these people." Natasha was the one to break the silence.

The teen shook his head, red chips growing.

"Peter." This time it was Bruce insisting. His voice was calm and understanding. "These people can't hurt you here. You're safe."

That didn't get the reaction they had expected.

Peter burst into laughter - a cruel bark that sounded oddly strangled. He threw his head back, pointed teeth glinting. Bright lights behind them showed that the tips were stained with red. It was the most sincere happiness he had shown so far.

"Peter," Tony said The teen glared at him, annoyed to be interrupted. His eyes were almost completely red. He was bitter, angry. They recognised the symptoms of his change and moved out of his reach. The teen laughed at _that_ too, but it came out as a growl.

The team exchanged glances - he'd been fine a minute ago, why was he doing this again?

"Peter, talk to us," Clint perched on the table in front of him, as close as he could safely be.

The teen laughed again, gesturing to his cuffed hand with his free-and-injured one. His meaning was obvious: _How could he speak with one hand trapped?_

"Pete, we'll uncuff you when you've calmed down, okay?" Clint was frustrated that they'd taken away Peter's only method of communication, even more so because they couldn't safely give it back.

The teen growled, but reluctantly focused his gaze out the window until he was calm. Clint noticed him tapping his finger in a rhythm on his thigh and realised he was thinking of a song. That was probably the most _Peter-ish_ thing he'd done so far.

When the red chips were a manageable size he looked back to them and pointed to his wrist again. The team nodded and freed his arm.

"So." Clint decided he was best person to talk directly to the teen, being the only one who could understand him. "What did you mean when you laughed?" There were probably other questions he could ask, but none that seemed as pertinent.

Peter stared at the floor, big chips pulsing with whatever he was thinking. He looked back at Clint, the chips larger than they should be. _"His claim was ridiculous. I'll never be safe."_

Clint dutifully relayed his statement, hating even to think of it, never mind say it. His frustration was echoed in the group's faces.

"No, no, no," Tony sat next to Peter again, putting an arm around the teen's shoulder. "You _are_ safe. They can't get to you here."

Peter snorted in response.

"It's true," the inventor insisted. "You don't have to worry about them anymore, we won't let them hurt you ever again."

 _"If that was true, they would never have hurt me in the first place."_

Clint paled.

Tony clicked his fingers in front of the archer's face when he didn't react. "What did he say?"

Clint ignored Tony and stared at Peter. "It's not like we weren't looking for you, Pete. We just couldn't find you."

Peter smiled at that, almost reassuringly. _"I'm not questioning your efforts, merely your ability."_

"Pete-"

 _"You would try, yes, but you wouldn't succeed. At least, not in time."_

Clint had no response to that. He placed his head in his hands with a shuddering sigh. "I'm sorry, Pete."

It took him a moment to realise Peter hadn't responded because he couldn't see him signing. He looked up.

 _"I don't blame you,"_ Peter said. _"I just can't trust you as much as you think I can. It's already obvious that you know nothing about Lightfall, or you would already_ know _everything I'm saying. "_

"If we knew more about Lightfall, the things you know, then we could stop them."

Peter didn't seem to have considered that. Something alien slipped into his eyes, which wandered over the skyline, jumping randomly from building to building, thought to thought as this new option, of freedom and an end to pain, made itself more and more possible in his mind.

If he told them what he knew, it would equal pain, lots of pain, along with Lightfall's own brand of death, one he had already experienced, one which was to be avoided at all costs - but _only_ if he was recaptured.

If he remained free however, he could have everything he'd been dreaming of for eighteen months. Safety, happiness, and the _Secret_ thing. He really wanted the Secret thing.

But to get his Secret he'd have to tell them what it was, and that would put it in danger.

It would also bring him his only chance of ever reaching his Secret.

He balanced the risks - telling them everything could lead to everything he'd ever wanted, but could bring on everything he'd dreaded for as long as he could remember.

This was the closest thing he'd ever had, and probably ever would have, to a chance.

But his Secret...he couldn't risk it for his own personal desires.

Peter made up his mind.

He nodded to Clint, red chips wide, hugging himself. He would tell them about everything.

 _...Except for his Secret._


	7. The Secret: Tune

**I haven't said I don't own this stuff so I'm saying now that I don't own Spidey or the avengers (obviously). Also, to any readers who haven't checked out my other stuff, I also do Merlin, if you wanna read some Merlin.**

 ** _Seventeen_** ** _months ago._**

The Specimen woke with a start, surprised by a slight, pinching pain in its arm. It tried to look down to see what was happening, but couldn't move its head. It stared at the ceiling instead, as it did every day, and waited for the pain to begin.

Around it the _Boffins_ \- the Specimen wasn't sure where it got the word from - were poking and prodding and cutting bits of it off to work with. Or for fun... _no, that was a different memory._

The Specimen felt another needle pierce its skin, and its eyelids felt heavy.

 _Line break (my normal type isn't working)_

Night had fallen when it opened its eyes again. At least, the Specimen assumed it was night, there were no clocks or windows, and nobody bothered to tell it anything. It could guess the time by when the Boffins came and went.

At that time, there only one of them was there, and he wasn't poking the Specimen. Instead, he was cleaning the room and placing all the equipment in the correct place. The Boffin was a young man, practically a boy, at sixteen years old or thereabouts. He hummed to himself as he worked. The tune was unfamiliar - then again, everything was - but the Specimen liked the calming sound.

It fell asleep listening to the boy hum.

 _Line break_

Each evening the Specimen would hear the boy humming the same tune. Occasionally he would catch himself humming and make a quiet noise of annoyance in the back of his throat. He hadn't even noticed he was humming. He would be humming again before a minute had passed, completely oblivious to it, of course.

Eventually, the Specimen laughed at that. The little annoyed noises he made were so _cute_ , and he would clutch at his hair every time he made them.

Unfortunately, the boy noticed his laugh.

"What?" The boy turned to the Specimen for the first time. It took in his clear blue eyes and bouncy fringe of long blonde hair that split to frame the soft curves of his face. A short ponytail swished behind him as he moved. The Specimen admired the tall, slim frame that towered over him.

The Specimen blinked, realising it had been asked a question that it had forgotten. _Was it allowed to answer questions?_ It had already been told it wasn't allowed to speak.

The boy raised an eyebrow at the Specimen. "What's so funny?" He repeated.

He didn't appear to be annoyed at the Specimen, so it answered: "You're humming."

The boy growled in the back of his throat, hand making the familiar grab at his fringe. "I am aware of my humming, _thank you very much_. I've had the same song stuck in my head for the last week and it's been driving me fucking mental."

Specimen cracked a smile. It couldn't help itself - the boy was just so frustrated and his accent was so rough and angry, even though his voice was so high pitched he sounded like a woman.

"What's the song?" It asked.

"Just a thing I like, not important, kinda annoying, and it just... _aaargh!"_ The boy stalked away to rub a cleaner furiously on a counter. The Specimen watched his sharp shoulder blades moving through the thick material of his lab coat.

A minute passed before the boy realised that the Specimen was humming the tune (it felt like being cheeky and was certain the boy wouldn't punish it. There was also something very instinctive about its cheek).

"You're not helping," the boy said.

Innocently, the Specimen said, "It's stuck in my head now too. I can't help it."

The eyebrow rose again. Then faltered as the boy burst out laughing. It was such a happy laugh it was almost alien to the Specimen, and it couldn't help loving the boy's joy.

The boy leaned against a counter, close enough to the Specimen that it could see him, and explained that, "The only way to get a song out of your head is to listen to it." He smiled, but it was too nervous to reach his eyes. "If I play it in here, you won't tell anyone?" He chose to fiddle with his cuffs rather than look the Specimen in the eye.

"I've never listened to music before," the Specimen replied. It probably had, but couldn't remember. No matter how far it stretched its memory, it couldn't remember the lyrics to a single song. "I'd love to hear this stupid song properly - I've had to put up with you humming it for a week I might as well know how it _actually_ goes."

The boy nodded, then grabbed a touchscreen and tapped quickly for a few minutes. The Specimen recognised him hacking, and was surprised to find that it knew quite a bit about the act.

It also realised that the boy wasn't allowed to play music at all.

"Got it," the boy said, after what seemed like forever. A few seconds after that, piano chords filtered through the room from speakers - designed for announcements, not entertainment - in the ceiling, followed by a thick accent, one that matched the boy's, singing softly. His voice hardened as punky bass and fast drums popped up, the beat forcing the Specimen's toes to tap.

The boy sang along to the song, and the Specimen memorised the lyrics, focusing intently, though often distracted by the flares of piano and the sudden harmonies.

The song ended and the Specimen sighed to itself. That had been nice. The Specimen was glad to be able to match lyrics to the boy's humming.

It was confused that its memory was so good - it had lost so much of it, so why was it able to recite _an entire song_ after just one listen?

The Specimen voiced this to the boy, only half expecting an answer.

"Ah," was the boy's response. "That."

"You know, then?"

The boy sighed. "Yeah." At the Specimen's expression, curious and insistent, he continued. "Lightfall have ways of implanting knowledge into the brain...but, in most brains, there's limited space. So they...make some."

That explained a lot.

"They locate memories they believe to be unnecessary and they get rid of them...I think that with you it was everything personal, leaving any ' _useful_ ' memories behind.

"At the moment you're a sponge, ready for implanted knowledge, and you're absorbing everything around you. They'll place some stuff in there when your brain has settled itself down - they removed quite a bit more than normal and they don't want to damage it - and after that, you'll get some experience in whatever they implant to bring out the information and then you'll be ready to go."

The Specimen was silent as it digested this information. So that was where its memories had gone - deleted, soon to be overwritten and gone forever.

It shivered at the thought.

"I know." The boy agreed with the Specimen's movement. "I've had the same done and, even though they didn't have to remove anything, it still really sucked."

The Specimen frowned. "Why didn't they delete anything?"

The boy looked smug at that. "I'm really clever - photographic memory, like. No point in removing memories to make space when I have infinite space. I got a biology implant just before I started working with you."

The Specimen smirked. "So they just dumped a load of nerd stuff in your head and pointed you in the right direction?"

"I'm not a nerd."

The Specimen laughed.

"Fine...I'm a bit of a nerd," The boy crossed his arms around himself. "Before I... _joined_ (for lack of a better word) Lightfall, I went by Binary."

"Binary?"

"Yeah. My friends here call me that, too. You can as well, if you want." He reddened slightly.

"Okay, _Binary."_

Binary grinned at the Specimen.

 **Nyehehe I've wanted you guys to meet Binary forever, I love him sooo much.**


	8. The Secret: Name

**_Sixteen_** ** _months ago_**

 _"Daniel Heart._ What do you think?"

 _"Daniel Heart,"_ the Specimen repeated. "It'll do." He grinned and felt himself relax. He had a name. A _real_ name.

"This is the fun part. Codename," Binary wouldn't stop smiling and couldn't stop if he tried.

"Are there any rules or can I call myself Banana-Hammock?"

"Do you want to be called Banana-Hammock?"

Daniel paused. "Not really. But could I if I wanted to?"

"Sure," for some reason Binary was trying to _look_ like he had the _ability_ to look serious.

"Most of us name ourselves after what we're good at. Kinda. Nobody's called Awesome-Secret-Ninja-Guy or anything," he paused again. "Please don't call yourself Banana-Hammock."

Daniel laughed. It felt weird to him. "Okay, okay, I won't." In his head he was holding out his hands to placate his friend. All he could really do was twitch his fingers, as he was still held down with straps the pair were too terrified to touch.

"So what are you good at then?" Without waiting for a reply he launched into his observations, "We know that you're strong and fast, you stick to walls and you're pretty durable."

"And apparently I'm pretty good at bugging 'dangerous people'." Laughing, Daniel quoted the Boffins' explaination for his treatment.

"Bug, then," Binary said immediately. Daniel opened his mouth to snigger, but the name made him pause.

He actually liked it.

"Bug, it is," he said.

Binary raised an eyebrow and smirked, "You know I was joking, right?"

"Too late! I'm Bug."

"Fine!.. That is really ridiculous though."

"That's what's fun about it."

Binary huffed at that. A few seconds passed before Bug asked, "What's your real name?"

Binary quirked an eyebrow up at his friend.

"Just curious...and you know my real name so it's only fair."

Sighing, the nerd with overlong blond hair said, "Sam Hollison, pleased to meet you."

 **A/N Someone was confused and asking about OCs so just to be clear: Daniel/Bug/Specimen is Peter after he lost his memory (and forgot his name). The how of the memory loss was established in the previous chapter and the why will be next chapter.** **Sam/Binary is an OC, and I invented Lightfall because I wanted an organisation that worked so deep in the shadows that nobody had ever heard of them.** **Got it? Excellent.**


	9. The Secret: Kiss

**_Seventeen months ago_**

Bug opened his eyes. He blinked at the permanent white of the lab. The boffins had left hours ago, assigning their youngest member the role of watching over the Specimen and informing them if it had reacted badly to memory transfer.

Binary ran his hand through his friend's short hair. He'd been through a lot in the last few days, what with his genetic alterations having _finally_ had an effect. This had brought on the memory dump - the scientists had decided that they were pretty much done with him and just got it done so the could move on to the next thimg.

They had also felt that the memory dump would be an apt punishment for an...incident..that had occured the day before, as it would wipe out almost everything left from before, leaving only the useful memories behind. They knew the Specimen wouldn't like that.

Bug watched Binary with his soft brown eyes, the red barely visible in his calm. He hadn't been able to sing with him that night, as had become their habit, as he was having trouble with the many large and pointed teeth that now filled his mouth. He kept accidentally biting into his lips and tongue when he spoke.

Blood coated his teeth again as he asked, "What happened?" in the accent he had stolen from Binary.

"Memory dump."

Bug shifted his head in the straps in an attempt at nodding. "What did I get?" He seemed to care more about the information than the pain.

"Languages, mostly," Binary said. "Details on enemies, as well, along with lock-picking, hacking, and some basic combat info."

"Hacking?"

Binary laughed. "You've still got nothing on me, Bug, but they gave you enough to be useful in the field."

"Anything else?"

Binary blushed a little. "I may or may not have hacked into it and added in the lyrics to all my favourite songs."

There was a pause. Then Bug burst out laughing.

"You _hacked_ it to teach me _song lyrics?"_ Binary couldn't help smiling at his laughing friend, despite all the information he still had to deliver.

"Yeah...listen, Bug, there's still stuff left to me to tell you."

"What?"

"Well...the scientists-"

"The _Boffins_."

"-The _Boffins_ ," Binary shook his head as he corrected himself, "succeeded in making the desired genetic changes."

Bug looked unamused and bared his teeth. "I noticed."

Binary rubbed the back of his neck. "That is one of the permanent changes, but the sci - the _Boffins_ \- discovered yesterday when you were...stressed," (Binary didn't want to say _'in horrible pain at your body's sudden transformation')_ , "that the changes can worsen."

Bug frowned. "In what way?"

Binary paused, trying to find the right words. His hesitation caused the red chips in his friend's eyes to grow so he spoke quickly, hoping to balance it. "They say that your powers are animal based and that, as your powers have been amplified, the animal side has also been amplified."

The red chips became wider at this.

Binary continued hurriedly. "As long as you keep yourself calm there isn't a problem-"

"But when I'm _not_ calm?" Despite his obvious efforts, Bug did not sound calm.

"It...takes over. The more stressed you are, the more powerful it is. If it takes complete control it affects your body as well."

The red was larger than the brown. Binary decided that that was a very bad sign.

So he hummed to him, continuing to stroke Bug's hair, in a effort to calm him.

"What are you doing?"

 _It wasn't working._

No sense beating around the bush. "I'm trying to keep you calm."

"It's taking control?" The chips grew again, almost completely shutting out the brown.

"Not if you stay calm."

Bug was practically hyperventilating. _Shit._

"Bug, just take deep breaths, look at me, okay? In and out, in and out."

But the other half didn't listen.

Bug snarled, pointed teeth evident, his red eyes empty of any brown. Or any humanity. Rough fur sprouted, covering his whole body in a brown and black pattern. Something stirred at his sides, then four arms leapt up, unbound and uncontrollable.

The arms, tipped with claws, slashed randomly at the air. Binary stood well back, watching them easily, while Bug struggled with his remaining straps, oblivious to the fact that his new arms could help him.

Binary, determined not to be scared of his friend, gently took a hold of one or the rampaging arms, stroking the coarse fur that covered it. Two red eyes focused on Binary, who forced himself not to look afraid. A hint of brown appeared in the red and Binary sang to the brown, hoping to help it grow.

Without warning the hand he held clutched at him and pulled him towards the red. The other arms held him in place against Bug. Pointed teeth were shown in a smile, warm compassionate brown crept into the red eyes and fur stuck out like prickles on a hedgehog, but underneath all was the same softie that was Bug.

 _Also kinda like a hedgehog._

Binary couldn't help but smile at the comparison. "You're my little Hedgehog," he said to his friend.

A rumbling laugh came from Bug, and he released Binary as the red released his eyes, though not his form.

"A _hedgehog_. Really?" Binary was slightly surprised by the deepness of Bug's voice, but wasn't too concerned - that would probably fade when he dropped the rest of his physical changes.

Binary smirked. "The comparison is accurate. You've got all these dangerous powers but you're just an adorable little Snuggle-Bug." He tapped Bug on the nose to emphasise his point.

"Snuggle-Bug, now?"

"I'm gonna call you whatever pet names I want..." He paused. "If I can think of any more."

"You're so adorable...Tweetie."

Binary/Tweetie wrinkled his nose. "In what way am I 'Tweetie'?"

"It annoys you... Tweetie."

Binary tried to avoid huffing - that would only encourage Bug.

"What's wrong, Tweetie-Pie?" Bug sounded almost innocent as he took Binary's hand with one of his four free ones.

"Stop calling me Tweetie."

"Nope!"

"I'll stop calling you Snuggle-Bug."

"If you're that desperate to lose the nickname I think you have to keep it."

Binary laughed and took a proper hold on Bug's hand, shifting closer.

"Well then, what _can_ I offer you that'll make you stop?" Binary leant over Bug, his face inches away, already having a pretry good idea.

Binary watched Bug's pupils dilate as the red disappeared completely for the first time. He felt his crush's breath on his cheek.

Binary leant closer, and a hand came to his back, sliding up to stroke the back of his neck. Two more accompanied it as Binary placed one hand on Bug's cheek, then closed the gap between their lips.

 **A/N Hey, this is me saying things, I guess. Please let me know if I've done Binary well enough for you guys to like him - I really love him and want to do him justice so any advice on how to do that is encouraged (BTW, yelling "I don't like him because he's not Gwen!" or "Peter's not gay!" isn't helpful - those are the two reasons I am expecting this character not to be liked but I'm hoping you can move past that and help me do this properly instead of grumping at those two details - one of them aids the plot and the other is unimportant).** **Also, sorry for the wait, the next chapter will be quicker so look forwards to that.**


	10. Birds of Prey

**A/N sorry for present tense first person but other than that I like this chapter so just ignore it, if you wouldn't mind.**

 ** _Sixteen months ago_**

In the mirror I see a very short boy, no older than sixteen, with close cropped brown hair and aged brown eyes that carry flecks of red. He's dressed in a classic army style uniform: heavy boots and those weird trousers with the pockets on the knees, and the whole thing's black instead of camouflage. A swirling pattern of scars climb like ivy up from his left elbow into his shirt sleeve, where they climb across his chest, stretching down to his navel. An ugly molten mess greets the scars just below his ribs, and two large lumps of muscle and bone stick out from his sides, ready to become arms at any moment, of only his powers were freed. He doesn't know how any of his scars got there. They feel new.

Around his neck glints a silver collar. Underneath it are livid red burns from its regular use of punitive electricity.

I study his face, tilting it this way and that, trying to match the plain expression to everything the boy had been put through.

A taller boy with blonde hair falling over his eyes stands next to the first boy, failing to hide his sadness at the sight of me. His large blue eyes dart from the boy in the mirror to me, then back again.

"What do you think?" he asks, as if I were appraising an item rather than my own face. I'm not sure of what to say. I feel a bit empty. I hadn't thought about my appearance until now.

"I thought I was older," I say. I look back again. My reflection speaks with me. "But I feel younger. Less experienced. Even though I still know some things." I snort.

"The old me was a massive geek. There's a bunch of computer and science nonsense in my head - so much that they didn't even have to put much in there, in the way of techno mumbo jumbo." I mentally run over all the methods of hacking and creating chemical formulas - one sticks out in particular, some kind of glue, I think - that the first me must have learnt. I've never even touched a computer before. Kinda.

"He must have really cared about that stuff," I continue. "It doesn't feel important to me. But I still know it all. Like the knowledge was dropped into my head, you know?"

He tilts his head and puts on his thinking frown. After a few moments, he shakes his head. I understand. He doesn't understand. He's had a few memory dumps but that's not the same thing as having your memory wiped. I'm pretty sure I'm unique - I don't think many amnesiacs had the same experience as me. They'd probably have had a mirror nearby. And loved ones.

I wonder if I used to care about people. I must have.

Would I recognise the original me's friends if I met them? Somehow, I doubt it.

Binary nudges my arm and I walk after him, disappointed that the novelty of movement has already worn off.

"Who are we meeting?" I ask, not because I don't know but because I want to fill in the silence that makes it far to easy to think.

"My friends should be in the sparring area," Binary says. "I'll introduce you when I find them."

He pushes open a set of double doors and I find myself on a balcony that circles a massive room, the floor of which is swarming with figures, fighting each other in neat spinning pairs, like homicidal dancers.

Looking closer, I see that - rather disturbingly - many of the dancers couldn't be older than seven and the few elders aren't much older than me. Worst of all, the younger they are the more violent they seem to be, although the 'deadliest' scale seems to peak at around eleven years old. There seems to be a cut-off point there too: there are few assassins over that age.

"There!" Binary points towards two boys at the edge of the arena, a small kid with black hair, and a taller boy with fair hair. They're both dressed in the same combat uniform as I am. I'm led to a staircase running around the room and am taken down to them.

I try to avoid looking at the pint-sized assassins scattered around the room, slightly embarrassed by the knowledge that they could probably beat me up. _No, wait:_ They could _definitely_ beat me up. Easily. I swallow and focus on Binary's friends.

The two of them circle each other with snarls on their faces and their hands arched into claws by their sides. Without warning, the black-haired kid lunges forward, striking out with a right jab to the face that his opponent blocks with his forearm, ducking under to punch black-hair in the stomach. Black-hair dodges backwards, taking a hold of fair-hair's wrist as he does so, trying to get him off balance. I quickly lose track of the two of them, they're too fast for me to even follow the fight.

Black-hair is the fastest though. He gets in a jab to the shoulder which he then follows up with a second to the stomach. Fair-hair steps back but he's clearly winded. Black-hair hits him with a solid right hook to the chin then crouches and sweeps his opponent's leg out from underneath him, his movements blurred with speed. Fair-hair topples to the floor and in an instant Black-hair has him pinned underneath his knees.

He taps Fair-hair on his exposed throat and says, "Dead," with a massive grin. He waits for a few moments before he gets off of his partner, offering him a hand that Fair-hair pointedly refuses.

Binary snorts a laugh and Black-hair turns at the noise. With a quick glance towards the guards, who seemed to be paying more attention to the centre of the room, he walks over, still smiling, leaving Fair-hair to get up on his own.

"Binary!" Black-hair calls by way of greeting. He turns to me with one eye shut and his face tilted. "Who're you again?"

"Bug," I say.

"Oh, yeah," Black-hair grins. "Great name. Really stupid!" I'm not sure if he's serious or not. Somehow, I don't think his approval is a good thing.

Fair-hair appears at his shoulder and says, "Don't mind him. He's an idiot." He has a slight Australian accent that makes him sound a lot happier than he looks, which is like he doesn't know how smiling works. He's tall and generally intimidating with toned but not bulging muscles _(even though he's a year or two younger than me),_ and has the kind of tan and serious, chocolate-brown eyes that girls fawn over.

"I'm Hunter, by the way." His accent almost makes it sound like a question, somehow.

"Crow," Black-hair/Crow steps in between us and holds out his hand. I look at it.

"This is the part where you shake my hand. As opposed to staring at it, like you're doing." I decide to go ahead and like Crow. I shake his hand and examine him. He's a half foot shorter than me _(and I'm pretty short)_ and can't be older than ten. He doesn't seem to have any kind of accent, but maybe I just don't know much about accents. His hair is long but doesn't quite cover his eyes, which are so dark they're almost black. They look even darker in contrast to his white skin.

I let go of his hand before he manages to send anymore snark my way. I pause, and realise I can send my own snark at them.

"Do either of you have real names?" I ask. "Or are you so caught up in this whole assassin business that you've forgotten them?"

Crow grins and Hunter looks away. "Here we go again," he mutters, seemingly to himself.

"Well," Crow starts, "Hunter and I are keeping our names secret from each other so that neither of us can find the other again once we get back to our old lives."

"That's my cue to leave," Binary butts in, already walking away. "Enjoy the story, Hedgehog!" He calls over his shoulder. He must have other work to do.

With Binary gone Crow looks at me expectantly and I sigh, just glad he didn't mention the ' _Hedgehog_ ' thing. "What were your old lives, then?" I ask, knowing he's waiting for the prompt.

In a stage whisper he says, "Hunter used to be a top secret-y secret super spy!"

I raise an eyebrow. "Uh-huh."

"It's true! I met him a few times, that's how we know each other."

"Cool," I say and I can see the little bundle of frustration in his eyes. I'm not asking him what he wants me to ask.

"We met on his missions," he says.

I stay silent.

"They're actually really great stories."

"I'll take your word for it."

He looks like he's about to have a tantrum. "Do you want to know what happened?"

"Not really."

He pauses, and although I want him to tell me, I _also_ want to annoy him. Unfortunately, annoying people wins over curiosity every time.

Hunter sidles in. "Crow worked for the Assassins Guild," he says. Crow punches him.

" _Wow, that's really interesting_ ," I say with mock politeness. "Do tell me more."

Crow turns around and does a funny dance where he seems to punch invisible people. It's very amusing. Hunter and I pause to watch. _(I try to ignore how obvious it is that he_ is _, in fact, a child.)_

When he's finished I cover my uneasiness with a joke, "Why are you an assassin? I think you'd make a lovely ballerina."

He turns to Hunter. "He's bullying me."

"I can see that."

"I thought we were friends."

"Then you're an idiot."

He gestures between himself and Hunter. "I meant the two of us."

"So did I."

Crow looks like he's about to do his dance again.

Hunter turns back to me and ignores him. "Crow and I worked against each other on the outside. I was with the Australian secret service, ASIS, and he killed people for a living."

"It runs in the family," Crow protests.

Hunter ignores him. "We'd met each other a few times before we were captured by Lightfall."

" _Lightfall?"_

"This lot," he gestures vaguely at the room. "The group that are keeping us here, that's what they're called. Didn't you know that?"

"There's an awful lot I don't know," I admit.

The two of them stay silent for a while. Predictably, Crow's the one to break the silence.

"So before we even ended up here we were _mortal frenemies_ ," he wiggles his fingers in the air for emphasis. "And now we're best friends."

"We've been over this, Crow, I don't like you."

"You love me."

"I've tried to kill you before."

"Then you only love me a little bit."

"I don't love you."

"You couldn't live without me."

Hunter said nothing.

"He loves me!" Crow yelled, a little too loudly

 _"Shut up or the guards will hear you,"_ Hunter hisses, suddenly angry.

Crow stays silent for exactly 3 seconds.

"Right, so we've known each other for about 5 minutes now," Crow grins, "I think it's time for a group hug."

Hunter whispers to me, "I'll go high, you go low." We share a rare smile and dive at Crow.

Line break*

"So what does that do anyway?" Crow points at my collar with his spoon, sending little bits of grey... _something_ across the table.

I look down at my chest, unable to actually see my collar and ending up choking on it. After Crow finishes laughing I say, "It stops me from using my abilities."

"Your what?"

"I don't know really, I haven't had the chance to try them out properly."

Crow gives me a sceptical look. "What would happen if you weren't wearing it?"

"Probably something involving a lot of dead guards and a me-shaped hole in a wall somewhere."

"Uh-huh."

"You don't believe me?"

"I can't see why else they'd want you but that sounds a bit far-fetched."

I ignore the insult. My fighting isn't _that_ bad. He just thinks I'm crap because he's been trained since he was four.

"I've got the collar thing to prove it, but you can ask Binary next time you see him if you still think I'm talking nonsense."

Crow tilts his head one way, then the other. After several awkwardly long blinks he says, "Alright."

"You believe me?"

"Oh, I did that ages ago," _(ages meaning three blinks)_ , "I was just wondering how we can use this."

Catching the look in Crow's eye I say, "I can't get it off. The collar. Trust me, I want rid of this more than you do."

I don't think Crow is listening anymore. His eyes are vacant and his spoon hovers between his bowl and his mouth, completely forgotten. I'm tempted to wave my fingers in front of his face like in the cartoons I've never seen, but I know what his reflexes are like. And he knows where to find nerve clusters.

Hunter slams down a tray of the grey food-like substance right next to Crow, making him jump so much he almost falls over. He stares at Crow for a long time, then turns to me and asks, "Do you know what he's planning?"

"Ask him."

"He'll just giggle like a schoolgirl and say something stupid."

I turn to face Crow. "What are you planning?"

Crow giggles like a schoolgirl and says, _"Something stupid."_

After giving him the appropriate amount of insults (and punches) Hunter looks back at me. "That's his planning face," he nods at Crow. "Do you know what set him up?"

"Told him I've got weird powers. This stops them," I tap the collar, "but I don't know if he understands that that's important."

Hunter's sighs in frustration. "Now I have to talk him out of another escape attempt. I have to do that every Taken day."

"Every what?"

Hunter sighs. "On every fifth day the Colonel, the guy running this place takes people out of here and adds people in."

Something about that disturbs me - leaving Lightfall? It's a very odd thought. That shouldn't be an odd thought. Then again, where would I go?

"Why would anyone worry about that?" I ask. "I'd have thought leaving would be a good thing," _or at least I should have._

Hunter glances around us, his expression even more serious than usual. Crow picks up on this and raises an eyebrow at me. Then the other. After enduring three seconds of his weird eyebrow waggling I explain the conversation he had been ignoring.

Uncharacteristically, Crow's features settle into a sombre expression. I realise that I'm definitely missing something important.

With a small swallow I ask, "What's so bad about leaving?"

Crow shakes his head. "They don't leave, they're _Taken_. There's no choice."

"I didn't think there ever was around here."

"There's not," says Hunter curtly. "But this is different. People who are Taken never come back."

"Never?"

After exchanging an infuriatingly slow glance with Hunter, Crow continues, "There were two occasions where we saw them again. Each time, two friends. Good friends. Like we are."

I wait for him to continue but he doesn't speak. Eventually, Hunter takes up the thread of the story again. "Since we've arrived it's happened once, the other time we were told about. It could have happened more than we know about, but I doubt that anybody still here was there when it happened."

"What happened exactly?" I ask, slightly annoyed at how long they're taking.

With his eyes fixed on the table, Hunter starts talking. "Their names were Jake and Max. They had both been here long before the two of us, but we had spoken a few times. They were alright." Hunter's voice catches for a second, and despite his casual dismissal I suspect that they weren't just acquaintances.

"Two days after they were Taken, both of them at the same time, everyone was herded to this massive room. We hadn't ever been there before. We all stood on these balcony things around this...this _pit_ in the floor.

"And there they were. To be honest, I'd half thought they were dead. No one ever comes back. But they were there, alive and well. Except they weren't. Well, I mean, they were _alive_ but something was wrong. We could all tell.

"The Colonel appeared above us on his own balcony and he threw two swords into the pit. He said, ' _Only one comes out_ ,' and then they...they tried to kill eachother."

I can't believe what I'm hearing. Even though it makes perfect sense. It's exactly what this place would do. I don't doubt for a second what Hunter is saying, even though I really wish I could.

"Jake won," Crow says in a hollow voice. "No one saw him again after that. We don't know what he's doing now. Or if he's still alive."

I do all I can to push away the little voice that can see my fears. If they were as good friends as Hunter had said, as good friends as the two of them, soon to be the three of us, then...

"How's that plan coming along, Crow?"


	11. The Secret: Plan

**_Thirteen_** ** _months ago_**

"So what's the first thing you'd do if we got out?" Binary asked.

"Probably eat a ridiculously large and fancy meal in an insanely expensive restaurant. Then go dancing. I'd like to find out what that's all about."

"Sounds like a great evening," Binary agreed. "Except for the dancing, maybe. I've never danced in my life."

"Neither have I. That I can remember." Bug gave his more-than-friend a half smile, but his eyes were sad. "What about you?"

"First goal is go sunbathing. My skin has turned white from being underground for so long. I'm almost missing sunburn. How does that happen?"

Bug laughed, "Let's go get sunburnt!" His smile slipped. "I can't wait to see the sun. Properly. There isn't any blue in here, have you noticed? I haven't seen the colour properly yet. Except in your eyes. Is that what the sky looks like?"

"Kinda."

"Then I can see why everybody loves it."

Binary giggled and tried to hide his face behind his hair so Bug couldn't see him blush, but his hair was too short for that, barely falling over his eyes. When he emerged from his ineffective cover, he found Bug staring at him, unable to quite meet his gaze. Was he blushing too?

Binary wasn't sure what to say but he went with, "Wait until you see the sea. It's massive and it never stops moving. You can watch light dancing across the surface for hours. It's...beautiful."

Bug was staring at him again. He didn't look away when Binary met his gaze, forcing the nerd to do so instead. He touched Binary's chin and turned him back to him, caressing his cheek. Binary leant into his hand, smiling.

His eyes and their red chips widened for a moment and he pulled his hand away as if he was stung, some fear-filled thought pushing him from the present.

"Bug?" He stares at the floor. "Daniel?" Binary whispered. He flinched and turned back to his not-just-friend, his eyes darting about to make sure no one had heard, even though they were alone. They both knew they get into trouble if someone found out they given Daniel Heart a proper, _real_ name.

Daniel smiled at their secret and whispered, "Hey, Sam," in reply. Sam took his hand and his better-than-friend didn't object. His eyes slid out of focus for a second as a frown crossed his face.

"If we did get out," he asked, "would we stay together?"

Sam wrapped a hand around his waist and pulled himself closer. He felt the hard bumps of compressed bone and muscle in his sides. "Of course we would. Why?"

He sighed. "I can't even imagine what I would do after this. I've spent my whole life here."

"We can try to get your memory back. Maybe you can do what you used to do."

"Whatever I used to do landed me in here. I'm not risking losing my memory again," he hesitated. "I'm not risking losing you."

Sam took his hand, squeezing it along with the rest of him, unsure of what to say. After a moment, though, he figured it out. "I'd been thinking about going somewhere in the middle of nowhere, somewhere no one knows about, and just...buying a farm."

He laughed a little, but continued, "Get a few chickens and cows, a bit of land to grow crops. It would be work, but I wouldn't need anyone or anything. Except maybe some company."

Daniel's face broke into a beautiful smile. "Do you have any plans for your slice of heaven?"

"I was thinking the south of Spain. On the coast."

"Sun and sea."

"Exactly." Sam smiled at his boyfriend.

"So you want some company?" he asked.

"I'd love some."

"I can think of someone who would like to join you."

"Well you should tell this mysterious and _handsome_ stranger that they are welcome on my farm whenever." Binary couldnt help but think, ' _Did we just get engaged? We_ did _just promise to stay together for the rest of our lives._ '

"I'll be sure to pass on the message, Mr Heart." _Yup, we're engaged. Awesome._

Sam frowned though - Daniel was taking _his_ name, _not_ the other way around. Daniel was not going to call him by his own last name. "I do thank you, Mr _Hollison_." He ignored the war they had just started - Daniel was taking _his_ name, end of story.

They both giggled and smiled and held hands, their miniature quarrel only reminding them why they loved eachother. Daniel raised their interlocked fingers and softly grazed Sam's knuckles with his lips, a proper gentleman. Sam knew that his face was bright red, but he leant in to kiss his now-fiancé (Mr _Hollison_ )'s cheek but ' _accidentally_ ' slipped and found his mouth.

"Oops, sorry."

"No problem." He grinned. "Maybe we could work on that in Spain."

"Spain."

 **And there ya go, that is Bug's secret, there is all of it, that is why he's been acting so strange and it is really adorable.** **Sorry for the surplus of new names and if they're confusing, I will use them in the future and establish them better there** **, however, if this is helpful:**

 **Bug/Daniel Heart/Specimen/Mr Hollison is Peter. He is addressing Binary/Sam Hollison as Mr Heart because he wants to keep his name when they get married. Sam is calling Daniel Mr Hollison because he wants to keep his name as well. I just think that's cute.**

 **Also, I've been considering writing a recap of the first four chapters from Bug's perspective because I know his behaviour was confusing there. Obviously you now know why he was acting that way, but let me know if you want something more in-depth than your own thoughts. Writing this probably wouldn't delay my uploading schedule, I've got up to chapter 17 written already, and the recap would likely be pretty short (2,000 words instead of the original 4,500). Just let me know if you'd like to read that.**


	12. Not-Sam

**Warning: Violence, self harm, non-con kissing (kinda), suicide attempt...again.**

 ** _Present._**

 _He nodded to Clint, red chips wide and arms crossed around himself. He would tell them about everything._ _...Except for his Secret._

It was at that moment that the elevator doors sprang open. Bug turned around to see them admitting... _Sam?_

No, the tall feminine figure with blue eyes and long blonde hair was not Sam. She was just a stranger.

Or so he had thought.

At the sight of him not-Sam leapt forwards, crushing his ribcage in a hug. Bug froze, arms held out from him, very careful not to touch not-Sam.

Not-Sam pulled away to study his face, then stepped back, her expression firm.

The words _"You are not doing that again,"_ were accompanied by a harsh slap. Pain flashed across Bug's face, blinding him for a second and, stunned, he took in the girl's sudden resemblance to his torturer as she shoved her lips onto his.

The resemblance intensified.

Red crept into Bug's eyes. He saw himself, from a distance, shoving her violently so the floor. He felt the familiar acidic burn behind his teeth and tasted their bitter venom as he prepared to strike. A growl purred through the air around him. His shoulders hunched and his fingers splayed to give his claws the best range. Blood roared in his ears - all he could hear was the voice in his head whispering _'kill her, kill her.'_

In two seconds he had gone from stunned to furious. From safe to deadly. And he didn't even need his powers.

He ignored the twisting in his stomach and the bitter taste, one that had nothing to do with his venom, that came when the real Sam appeared in his mind. He was furious with himself for betraying his love. He would kill this woman to prove she had no hold in him.

Sam would forgive him.

Bug leapt forwards to the girl, taking in her wide blue eyes and the perfect _'O'_ her mouth made. Her eyes were a different shade to Sam's, her hair too light and too long. She was different to Sam. Their similarities would not bother him.

His claws gripped her wrists, blood started gushing almost immediately. Bug took a moment to memorise her face, he wanted to remember the person who had dared to assault him like she had. Growling, he licked at his venomous teeth and lunged at her throat.

A hand around his waist pulled him upwards just as his jaws snapped together - on thin air and not her warm flesh. Claws raked against his captor, he struggled and tried to reach the girl - all he wanted was to kill her, _why would someone keep him from his goal?_

"Peter," said a voice in his ear, the voice of the tall and muscled blond. Bug kept struggling, if he could get free for a moment he could kill her.

But no, he couldn't. The blond's hold was too strong, and Bug ran out of time: definitely-not-Sam was escorted to the elevator by the short goatee man and the red lady.

All too quickly she was gone, out of Bug's reach.

He'd failed Sam.

He slumped in the blond's arms and was released. Bug let himself indulge in slouching on the floor for a few seconds, then forced himself up and towards his room when the twisting in his stomach returned.

He barely made it to the toilet before the contents of his stomach forced themselves out of his mouth. Acid burned in the back of his throat and tears slid down his cheeks. Contorted sobs spasmed in his chest like the familiar shock of electricity.

It wasn't enough pain.

Claws slashed across his chest, across the bumps at his sides, across his arms and his legs and it still wasn't enough.

Sickening memories leapt into his mind, memories of long days and nights spent in pain, worse memories that her more... _intimate_ attack had brought back. Somehow, even that wasn't enough.

He watched his blood trudge from his veins and studied the bandage on his wrist. Sam wouldn't accept him, not after what he'd done, so what was he risking living for anyway?

He tore off the bandage, revealing the pale skin and a scar that appeared a week old, that showed his previous attempt... _earlier that day?_ It had felt a lot longer. He placed a single claw just above a vein, but for a moment the old hope flashed across his eyes - the hope of Sam and freedom - but he could never be truly free, and now he could never have Sam.

He made his decision just as the door burst open.

 **A/N Hey, its a cliffhanger. Hurrah! And guess what? Next chapter is a flashback (so no answers for this chapter there)...and that one ends on a cliffhanger too! I'm so nice to you guys. Next chapter will be up Monday, and the one after that is Friday...Friday's also ends with a cliffhanger. Don't you just love me?** **P/S Sorry I forgot to mention the venom earlier, and if you hadn't already figured it out the girl in this chapter was Gwen (obviously).**


	13. Taken

**_Twelve months ago._**

Taken Day has never been stress-free but we all know something's wrong. Nobody says it out loud, but Crow fails to block the easiest of blows and Hunter barely touched his food this morning. I'm not sure what vibes I'm giving out, but I know that they're there. How could they not be?

Each second passes painfully slowly and frighteningly quickly. The wait is agonising but I don't want this morning to end, because we just know someone will be missing by this afternoon.

We won't stop looking at each other. Secretly, we're all hoping it's someone else. Or at least I am. My second biggest hope is that they're all thinking the same as I am. I don't think I can live with myself if they're not.

A chill passes through the crowd and my heart stops. It's time.

Ignoring my tremors I look up at the imposing figure of the Colonel; he's the master of life and death here and he knows it. A slight smile lifts the corners of his lips, and, in that moment, I know he's going to Take me.

I don't think the others have noticed yet. It won't be long until they find out.

I turn back to them, trying to think how I can say goodbye.

"Daniel." I'm so surprised that I can even speak that it takes me a few seconds to register what I just said. "I - I just know it's today and I wanted to tell you so...I'm Daniel."

They stare at me for a heart-stopping moment as I await their rejection.

"Adam," says Hunter.

"Jack," says Crow.

I let out a sigh of relief. Whatever happens, I can trust them. It feels good to be honest for just a moment. And it feels great to be given trust back.

A movement above attratcts our attention. The Colonel has chosen the first Taken, a girl around nine years old.

Nobody says it. One of us is safe.

The Colonel turns towards our tiny group, hiding with our backs to the wall, pale faces without a hint of hope.

He's looking right at us. We were right. Today is the day we lose someone.

The Colonel lifts his hand a second time, and points to Crow.

No, no, no, no, no. He can't Take Crow. He's _Crow_. A kid. They can't do this to a _kid._

I wait for the Colonel to turn away and traumatize another group, but he doesn't move.

One person left.

The Colonel deliberates, drawing out the pause. I feel like running but I can't move an inch. His gaze flicks between me and Hunter. _Hunter or me?_ He holds his eyes on Hunter for a beat longer, then looks at me with an icy smile.

He raises his hand, and points. At me.

Everything crashes together. I can't move, can't speak, can't think; my whole body has shut down with denial.

They can't _Take_ me. It just can't happen. This can't be happening to me. I should be at school right now, with a doting family at home. I should be snoozing in the middle of algebra with some random friends chucking bits of paper at me. I'm a kid for fuck's sake!

This can't be happening.

Everything seems to skip and jump and there are two men, one holding each arm, leading me through the secret door. I find my feet and fight against them, but a button appears in one's hand and everything hurts. I let them drag me into a stone room with no light. They lock it behind them. I'm trapped.

I can't see at all. I wave my hand in front of my face but there's nothing there.

Oh _shit,_ I was Taken.


	14. Scars

**_Present_**

 _He placed a single claw just above a vein..._ _He made his decision just as the door burst open._

The man who understood sign language shoved his claw away from his wrist with a firm but quiet, "No."

Bug sighed, but didn't fight him. He was too distraught to really think straight. Yes, he'd failed Sam but it wasn't like Sam wouldn't forgive him, right? Sam had forgiven him before, and it wasn't his fault, it was not-Sam's fault.

Besides, killing her still wasn't completely off the table.

The man slumped against the wall next to him, and they didn't speak for a few minutes. Eventually though, the man asked, "Do you wanna talk about it?"

Bug turned to look at him. He knew he couldn't tell the man about Sam - and wasn't mentally prepared to talk about the other issues associated with the kiss - but that was really only half of the equation. What had riled him up the first time was the slap...and the order.

 _"You are not doing that again."_

 _The_ _harsh sting on his cheek._

 _The sudden rage and confusion, and the flood of flashbacks._

He could tell the man about those things and the man would understand.

Bug turned to the man and signed, _"She hit me and gave me an order."_

The man paused, then nodded. "I'm guessing you didn't like that."

 _"That's what people do to me at Lightfall. She just looked like everybody I hate."_

The man slowly placed a hand on Bug's shoulder, not wanting to startle him. Bug appreciated his gentleness.

"I understand why you reacted that way. After what happened to you, you're allowed to go ballistic from time to time."

Bug nodded, glad that the man agreed with him.

"I need to call Bruce," the man said.

When Bug squinted at him, clearly confused, the man gestured to his chest, still covered in painful claw marks. "They need patching up."

Bug snorted and signed, _"They're barely pinpricks. By tomorrow there won't even be scars - and that's with my powers cut off."_

The man raised an eyebrow at him, and as proof Bug showed him the old cut from that morning's attempt.

The man sighed, trying to ignore the scar that was so obviously from a previous attempt. "Okay, fine, but you gotta clean them and get yourself a new shirt or Bruce will try anyway."

Bug nodded and looked at the man, waiting for him to leave. A few awkward seconds passed before the man said, "I'm not leaving you alone when you were about to commit suicide, like, three seconds ago!"

Bug pouted but understood. He straightened and pulled off his shirt, his old black combat shirt that was identical to every shirt he'd ever worn, and went to the sink to wash off the blood.

After a moment he noticed that the man was still just sitting on the floor. Bug turned to find him staring at him - or, more accurately, at his torso.

Bug blinked and gave the man a pointed look, but the man didn't seem to notice. Bug growled and that got his attention. The man levered himself off the floor and walked over to Bug, who automatically stepped backwards, bumping into the sink. The man wasn't exactly tall, but Bug was a classic shortie, and he found himself craning his neck to see the man's face.

The man gestured to Bug's chest, his voice barely a whisper: "Who did that?"

Bug looked down, and realised the man was staring at his scars.

The words carved underneath the large bumps in his sides probably shocked the man. As would the ragged pink flesh that encircled those spheres, set deep into his ribs. Pale white lines covered his chest, and the missing rib, like the missing collarbone, resembled melted wax. The raised and knotted flesh, intricately woven, on his left arm and upper chest would also be a concern, and that was only his front.

Bug had forgotten that this many scars wasn't normal.

"Peter." The man broke through his thoughts. "Tell me who did that."

 _"You know I can't."_ Bug ended the conversarion by turning back to the sink to finish cleaning his wounds, trying to ignore the fact that the man could then read the raised pink burn of _"Property of Lightfall"_ on his left shoulder blade, the long white lines that were so obviously from a whip, the break in the skin just behind a rib that had been broken so badly it pierced through, and the word _"Specimen001"_ carved on his right hip, wrapping around to his stomach.

Bug was still certain that there were that many zeroes purely because his torturer had felt like carving more, and not for any practical reason. That sounded like him.

Bug finished cleaning his wounds and walked right past the man, who was trying to get his attention, and went back to his room, hoping to find a new shirt. He had no clue of where to find one, but assumed he was meant to know - these people all thought he was their missing friend and, even though he technically _was_ him, he didn't feel like this person in the slightest and was terrified of what they'd do if they found out he wasn't him.

Deciding that the wardrobe was a safe bet he reached in and, sure enough, found several shirts - all in a massive heap. Great.

"Peter." Bug's frustration with the man grew.

He turned to glare at the man, but paused when he saw his worried expression. Bug accepted the fact that he was just trying to help him.

 _"What is it?"_ he signed, finally responding to him.

The man stepped closer, again placing a hand on his shoulder to act as a comforting presence. "I know you're upset about what happened with Gwen, but she'll be fine if you just explain yourself and apologize."

Bug snorted, shoving the man's hand away, then inwardly cursed himself. He could have pretended to apologize just to get close to her - and then kill her - but he couldn't help it: the man had read their situation terribly.

The man frowned at his reaction. "What's so funny?"

Bug decided that he'd get a giggle at the man's expression, and explained himself. _"I'm disappointed that she_ ** _didn't die,_** _not upset that I_ ** _tried to kill_** _her. I'm assuming you like her so maybe just keep her away from me if you want her throat to remain intact."_

The man's face was priceless. "You want to kill your girlfriend?"

Bug blinked. _Girlfriend?_ That did explain a few things, and it wasn't like she wasn't his typeWell, he'd thought guys were his type, but now wasn't the time for that train of thought. _"She annoyed me and I don't want her to keep breathing, so...yeah, I guess I want to kill her. And break up with her, I suppose."_

"But you love Gwen."

Bug shuddered _. "No way. Too..."_ an adjective failed to present itself, _"...nope."_

"Articulate," the man commented dryly, and Bug was pleased to see that he'd stopped freaking out and they could have a real conversation. "Okay, I get that your feelings for Gwen might have waned in a year and a half, but I don't get how that turns to hatred."

 _"It's not really hatred,"_ Bug tried to figure out the best way so put it, _"I'd just like it if I don't have to see her again."_

There was a slight laugh in the man's tone. "That can be arranged without killing."

 _"If you wanna do it your way, that's fine, I just like how permanent my method is."_

"Please tell me you're just making a bad joke."

Bug shrugged. _"I'm just saying what I'm thinking."_

The man sighed and covered his face with his hands, sitting on the bed. "What the hell did they do to you, Peter? I knew that you'd be different but this is just... you're a whole other person."

Bug froze. The man looked up and noticed his horrified expression.

"What? What did I say?"


	15. Overcast

**A/N Warning: Violence! (Though you'd probably have left by now if you cared.)**

 ** _Twelve Months Ago_**

 _I let them drag me into a stone room with no light. They lock it behind them. I'm trapped._

 _I can't see at all. I wave my hand in front of my face but there's nothing there._

 _Oh shit, I was Taken._

At some point later I am woken up by my cell door opening. The last day leapt into my mind. Taken Day. Shit.

Light blasts my eyes and I squint, picking myself up off of the floor.

"Hello, _Prey_." A silhouette with a voice that forces goosebumps to appear stands in the doorway. "Follow me."

The man sounds surprisingly friendly but it's not reassuring. Just a bit disturbing.

"Be quick about it," he says. "I have a button."

I'm beside him in seconds. The button is an old enemy - connected to the electrical charge in my collar. The man smiles at my reaction and walks off. I follow.

Despite his surroundings and threats the man looks clean. In his twenties. He has a neat beard and uses hair gel. He's wearing a suit. He might as well be an alien, he couldn't look more out of place.

"My name is Overcast. We've met once before." His eyes are flashing. "We had a great time together. Do you remember any of it?"

I shake my head slowly.

"We're not going to have much of a conversation if you insist on being mute, _Prey_." He sounds like we're on some kind of dinner date, not strolling towards my doom. With a grin, he shows me his hand. The button is held loosely in his fist. I understand what he's saying.

"Do you know what we were doing when we met?"

"No, Sir."

His smile expands. "Have you ever wondered where you got those scars?"

 _No_. "Yes, Sir."

"Your rib was the most fun. The scientists wanted a bone sample to work with while they waited. You had more spirit than any _Prey_ before you," he slaps me on the back. I'm shaking.

"The bosses wanted info and the boffins wanted DNA," he continues. "And I got all of it. This kind of work is my speciality. I can't tell you how glad I am to have a partner who can heal himself. This reunion is going to be a lot of fun."

 _I'm in the hands of a torturer. This isn't good._

"Are you excited?"

I stare at him blankly.

He raises his hand to scratch his chin, reminding me of the button trapped in his fist.

"Yes, Sir." _No, Sir._ I hate this.

"Well, you're in luck. We're here." He stops outside an unassuming room and types in a passcode to allow us entry. I hold my breath and hope he gets it wrong - anything for a few more seconds without pain. He doesn't.

The door opens to reveal a large, practically empty, room. There aren't any lights and the ones outside the room can barely make a dent in the darkness. I can't tell how big the room is. All I can see is a mirror on one wall, and some cuffs on the floor in front of it, with chains attatched to the walls and floor.

"Cuff yourself." Overcast's tone is cold: it's lost it's banter like it was never there.

He squeezes the button for an instant and I'm on the floor, trying to suck air back into my lungs.

"Cuff yourself."

I pull myself up and strap in first my ankles, then my wrists. My ankles have two chains per cuff, one on either side. There's a metal mechanism inside the padded straps that tightens when I've finished. I can't untie them from here. There's another strap but I'm not sure what it's for.

"Don't worry, _Prey_ , I'll take care of that one in a minute," Overcast says. He walks off, leaving me tied to the room, but with a lot more freedom than I had expected. I stay sitting on the floor, as the chains are too short for anything more comfortable.

An odd metallic clicking comes out from the walls. I don't know what it does for a few minutes, but then the chains around my wrists run out of slack. Each chain comes from two walls opposite each other, perpendicular to the mirror in front of me, and my hands are being slowly pulled apart.

I try to pull them back but the chains don't yeild.

In less then a minute both of my arms are out at their length, being pulled slightly harder than they want. If I move an inch, my muscles tear and joints threaten to pop loose. I keep still.

Overcast returns, coming in behind me. I don't try to look at him, but feel slightly vulnerable not knowing what he's doing.

He stands right behind me, close enough that I can feel his breath.

I shiver. Then gasp - at the rush of power and from the sudden pain. He's taken my collar off. Before I can recover from the blow to the head though, he's clicked in the last shackle and I am once again powerless.

This new cuff has chains on either side like the ankle cuffs, but the scary thing is that it's around my neck.

He tugs on the chains and I gag. I can't breathe. I lean backwards to lessen the strain but my arms start screaming at me to move back. I keep going, gasping in precious pockets of air, even though I know my arms can't take much more. Every time I take a breath, Overcast pulls the chain back another inch.

It's not long before I can't move another inch. The collar is still digging in but I can't move at all. My arms are on fire and my throat feels like I've been gargling bleach.

"You know, _Prey_ , the funny thing is that you let me do this to you."

The strain disapears and I suck in precious air, shifting forwards to let my arms relax.

He tisks and pulls me back again. I can breathe but my arms are still agony.

"You're the one who cuffed yourself in in the first place. So afraid of a little button," I lose control of my body for a second as pain floods through me, and everything chokes me at once. He pressed the button. I sit up again, dragging in more air.

"You are quite the downer. Give me a smile. Just a little smile."

I'd prefer to keep breathing.

He tugs the chain back. "Do it. _Prey_."

Coughing, I force my mouth into a grimance, and ignore the name, even though it disturbs me to no end.

"Good boy." He ruffles my hair and lets go of the chain. I don't try to move forwards this time.

He gives a satisfied "Hm," then his footsteps move to the door and disappear. When I'm certain he's gone I drag myself back to the middle of the room, and the pain in my arms settles into an ache.

The clicking comes from behind me this time. Moving up the wall. The mechanisms can move?

It sits directly above me, holding my collar's chains tight. I can feel it tugging at my chin. Then, slowly, it pulls up, forcing my head higher. The collar itself begins to squeeze, pressing against my windpipe. I shift from sitting to kneeling, trying to stop the collar from cutting off my air supply. My arms are aching but the collar keeps on rising.

My shoulders can't take much more. My arms are at their limit. One more inch and my shoulders will dislocate. I'm sure of it.

The collar keeps moving.

I force myself down, bones in my spine crack but it's not unpleasant. My breathlessness, however, _is_ unpleasant. I know I can't resist the collar for much longer.

I make a decision. There's no point in losing both arms, so I'll just lose one. Gently, I shift to the right, putting more strain on my left arm but giving my right a moment of respite.

My left shoulder pops out. I scream and flinch violently and my right is wrenched out of it's socket. I scream more and can't stop shaking but every movement just hurts them more.

After an eternity I manage to sit still. I note with little interest that my collar has slackened. I kneel and catch my breath.

Then the clicking starts again. From both sides.

 _My arms._

The clicking moves upwards and I scramble not to let my arms take any more damage. As my arms rise, I do too.

I'm stuck in a half squat when they stop moving. My arms are slack against the straps, I can't move them at all and they hate having to support themselves.

My thighs are starting to burn. I can't hold this position for much longer. I have to keep steady. If I fall my arms will have to take my weight. I shudder at the thought.

Finally, when my legs are trembling and I want nothing more to straighten, the clicking starts again.

Painfully slowly my arms dragged up and I gratefully follow. My legs are stiff and it's tricky getting them to move steadily.

I'm standing perfectly straight in a 'T' shape but the chains keep pulling my arms up. I go up on tiptoe but the few inches I gain aren't much help. They keep going and going and I'm a 'Y' shape but they don't stop. The chains pull me up and my arms are starting to feel the strain as they try to support some of my body weight. My toes are only just touching the ground.

Then I'm pulled off the floor and my shoulders are screaming at me but I don't move even though I _need_ to wriggle out of these cuffs but I can't.

I'm hoisted higher until I think I'm about two feet off of the ground. The clicking stops for one merciful second, then starts again. Below me.

The chains around my feet tighten and try to drag me down lower. The pain is indescribeable. It stretches along my arms and throughout my chest. All the scars on my arms are burning and my rib aches as though it was cut out yesterday. My bullied thighs are overshadowed by my upper body but still hurt by the strain.

My collar pulls itself up under my chin, forcing my head back until I'm staring at the ceiling. I can't move an inch. I can wiggle my toes. I can blink. That's about it.

Footsteps come into the room. They pause to place something in the corner before walking towards me. Fear begins to creep into my mind, taking hold and controlling my thoughts.

Overcast steps in front of me. I assume it's him but I can't be sure. I can't see him.

"You look a sorry sight." Definitely him. "Popped out your shoulders." His fingers whisper across the traumatised joints. I shiver.

"Would you like me to let you down?"

He's not going to. I don't reply.

"Shame. That doesn't look like much fun for you. I, personally, am loving it." He digs his fingers into my shoulder. I yell.

"Shhh, _Prey_ , it's okay. You're still pretty low on the scale here. I can do a lot worse than this, _trust me._ In fact, you don't need to trust me. I can show you." He walks to the corner and picks up whatever it is he brought with him.

Desperate, I try to break the straps, the chains, the walls, to do something that can get me out of here, but struggling only increases my pain. Overcast steps in front of me, gently tapping my side with something cool. It seems pretty heavy. I stop wriggling and try to figure out how to pray with my hands out at my sides.

The tapping stops for a moment and he holds the object in my eyeline. "Have you ever played _baseball_?"


	16. My Name's B-U-G

**_Present._**

 _"What the hell did they do to you, Peter? I knew that you'd be different but this is just... you're a whole other person."_

 _Bug_ _froze._ _The man looked up and noticed. "What? What did I say?"_

As Bug stepped back the man stood up, then quickly crossed the distance between them. "What's wrong now?"

Bug's eyes widened. He shook his head.

The man mentally ran over their conversation, and realised what he'd said. His eyes darkened when he realised the implications. "You'd better explain yourself right now. Are you even Peter?"

Bug's back met the wall and the teen braced himself there. If the man figured out that he wasn't who he said he was, he'd probably just throw him back to Lightfall - after thoroughly torturing him, of course.

The man sighed at Bug's expression, bitter disappointment evident on his face. "Just tell me who you are and why you look like my friend, kid."

Bug gulped, and took the only available option. The truth. _"I'm sorry,"_ he signed. _"I lost my memory. I'm not the person you knew...and I don't think there's a way for me to be him again. I'm really sorry,"_ Bug closed his eyes, waiting for the inevitable.

The man grabbed him, and he flinched at the attack. He then relaxed when he recognised a hug. "It's okay, kid." The man's voice was still sad and bitter, almost resigned, but not angry in the slightest.

He made an effort to put aside everything he was feeling so he could reassure the teen he used to fight alongside. "This isn't your fault," he said, "and this doesn't keep us from wanting to help you," Bug let out a shuddering sigh of relief. He was still safe. The man didn't hate him.

The man released him and sat down again. "My name's Clint," he explained, managing to keep his voice level. "I'm an archer, and in the field I'm called Hawkeye."

Bug sat down next to him, feeling safer than he had in days. _"I'm B-U-G,"_ (he had to sign out the individual letters), _"I'm an assassin and Lightfall don't know that I have a name."_ He grinned at Clint. _"It's my way of rebelling because they don't want me to see myself as a person, but I do."_ He held a finger to his lips. _"Don't tell them."_

Something in Clint's expression crumbled at that. He flopped backwards on the bed. "What is wrong with these people? Why would they do that? I mean, you're the most innocent person I know."

Bug snorted at that.

"Yeah, maybe not anymore, but this is like kicking a puppy repeatedly." Clint sat up again and looked at Bug.

"So...killing Gwen. Is there anything you want to add to that now?"

 _"Nothing really...I just got attacked by a strange woman and decided that I wanted to kill her."_

"And you're sticking with that decision."

Bug debated with himself about explaining Sam. He decided that, as he didn't want Clint's disapproval and believed he could trust him, he could say: _"There's another reason, but it's a secret reason and I don't want to tell you."_

Clint raised an eyebrow. "A secret reason? How many secrets do you have?"

 _"Quite a few,"_ Bug admitted. _"Can you not tell the others?"_

"That you have a secret?"

 _"It's an important secret."_

"Okay, I'll keep this to myself but in exchange I want to know what the secret is."

Bug shoved himself away from the bed, turning to Clint in a defensive position, horror evident on his face. What had he done? So what if this was the only guy he could speak to - that didn't mean he could be trusted.

 _Shitshitshitsh-_

"Whoa, whoa, Bug, it's alright, I was kidding." Clint held up his hands in an innocent gesture. "You can tell me in your own time...and only if you want to. I won't tell the others. If you want, I won't tell them about your amnesia...but I think you should tell them that."

Bug relaxed and sat down again. _"I'd like to tell them that, even if it's just so they get my name right. I was just scared you guys would kick me out...or hurt me."_

The words, _'You know we would never do that'_ were on the tip of Clint's tongue but the problem was that he _didn't_ know that. He slumped helplessly and did what he could to amend his mistake. "We wouldn't do that. What happened was our fault, not yours. Besides, if you squint, you're still kinda the same. I promise we'll protect you, just as we would have if you'd come back as Peter." Clint paused, but felt it wasn't enough.

"And...I'm sorry for failing you. If we'd found you faster or known what to do and just been a bit more professional instead of just smashing up New York trying to find you, we might have got there in time."

Bug gave him a sad smile. _"You couldn't have. You worked tirelessly and it still took you eighteen months. I lost my memory on the second day...you just wouldn't have managed it."_

"I'm still sorry."

 _"So am I, but it happened and my life is this now so we just need to get over it. It's not your fault, it's not my fault. Okay?"_

"Fine." Clint stood and offered Bug his hand. "Do you wanna go talk to the others now?"

Bug nodded and took his hand.

 **Hey sorry but now I'm only uploading every Friday because school's back and because I'm working on other stories.**


	17. Fingers

**_Twelve Months_** ** _Ago_**

I've been up here a few hours. There's not much to do. It's easy to focus on the bad things in life. Like how many bruises I have. They've all kinda blended together but I counted every strike.

There were lots.

The worst part was that I couldn't roll with them, take some force out of them, like I did when training with... _no...no...don't think about him..._

It's easier to pick out the cuts. They hurt more. Like little bits of burning wire on my body. I can count them, again and again, but I keep losing count. It's hard to concentrate on anything big - Overcast gave me something that keeps me awake but that was a side effect. I find a thread of thought but I keep losing it. And then I'm back to the start.

Overcast made sure I know that he's coming back. I have that to look forward to. He said he had been making sure not to break any bones. He wanted to save them for later.

"Hey, buddy, how're you doing?"

In my head I swear at him but out loud I keep quiet.

"Oh, don't be like that, _Prey_ , it's no fun for anybody."

 _What's he brought with him this time?_

The clicking sound comes from above me and my throat slackens. I let my head loll on my chest for a moment, releasing a crick in my neck.

"I've got a deal to offer you."

I want to ignore him but I'm desperate. "What deal?" My throat is dry and ragged from lack of water and screams.

His laugh is smug, cruel, and scarily genuine. "I need something from you. Something simple. If you fufil your part of the bargain, I'll let you out a few days early." _Days!?_

"And, right now, I'll lower you down and bring you some food. Good food. Not the slop they serve to you and the other prey. Food _I_ would eat." My stomach grumbles. I haven't eaten since the morning I was Taken. I'm not sure how long ago that was.

"Last part of the offer: while you're down, I'll turn off part of your collar and let you heal yourself. In fact, if you're very well behaved, I'll fetch you some pretty drugs, the nice ones you never had access to."

...I can't believe I thought he was telling the truth for even a second.

"This is the part where you doubt me. Right? Everybody does it." _For a good reason._

"However, there are consequences if you don't do as I ask. First, you'll be here for at least another six days." _Not doing that._

"Second, we will spend each of those days in each other's company. I always love it when that happens because that's the point where I can write someone off as a lost cause. If Lightfall don't need the agent anymore, they don't need them in good condition and I'm allowed to... _play_." He punctuates his word with a wrench of my shoulder.

I gasp (practically sob), and for a moment everything burns. I can't hold back a whimper.

Overcast's eyes aren't focused, though they are pointed at me. His hands twitch, brushing over some of my injuries, and he mutters to himself, looking happier than he should. I'd hate to know exactly what he's thinking about, but I can guess it's plans - plans for what he could do to me if I go against his deal.

If he's trying to scare me it's working. I get the feeling I'm not going to like my half of the deal.

He snaps awake again with a grin.

"You get my point, I assume. You really don't want to upset me. So now you're wondering, ' _What do you want me to do?'_ am I right?"

...I really hate this guy.

The slap comes out of nowhere, hitting about twenty different bruises and three or four cuts on my shoulder, which is in tatters internally _as well as_ externally. Something shifts into the wrong place. Scabs crack and warm blood trickles down onto my chest.

"I asked you a question."

Ignoring my throat's protests I say, "What do you want me to do?"

That laugh again. Then: "I need your agreement in something."

Behind him the mirror lights up. It's two-way. And behind it, strapped down on a vertical table, is Crow. Overcast has already had a go at him. He looks bad. I hope he's not as bad as I am.

"Most people have ten fingers and ten toes," Overcast says, "and I think you'll agree that you don't need that many. You only need a few of each."

He gestured to Crow. "You know the kid don't you? He doesn't need _all_ of his fingers, does he?"

I know I'm meant to answer but I can't. Knots form in my stomach when I realise what he wants me to agree to.

 ** _Thud_**.

Another smack makes stars leap in my eyes and scramble across my body, leaving molten lead in their wake. I resist the urge to struggle, it would only make things worse.

"Does he?"

Swallowing the bitter taste I give the only answer I can. "No, Sir."

"And, being aware of the consequences _and the rewards,_ would you object if I had a few of his fingers removed?"

 _Don't ask me that._

He walks away then comes back with the bat on his shoulder. "Do you object to his fingers being removed?" He raises the bat.

 ** _Thud._**

 ** _Thud._**

 ** _Thud._**

He pauses.

"Do you?"

 ** _Thud_.**

"Do you?"

 ** _Thud._**

"Do you?"

 ** _Thud._**

He pauses again.

"This is the last time I'm going to ask. Then you're written off, a lost cause, and I can to whatever I want with you. Think about how long you'll last - you're strong and you heal - if I'm careful I could easily keep you for a good...two, maybe three months."

Bile rises in my throat at the thought.

I consider my options : Hurt Crow slightly, or hurt _myself_ so much worse.

There's really no choice there.

"I don't object."

He stops. He laughs. He leaves.

He appears in the next room and talks to Crow. A speaker in the wall amplifies his voice.

"You said he wouldn't. I told you he would," he pulls a set of pliers out of his pocket. They don't look very sharp. Crow struggles uselessly as Overcast positions the pliers over the pinky finger of his left hand.

I close my eyes but can't block out the screams.

 ** _Ten minutes later._**

The steak looks delicious and my arms are working well enough for me to eat. It should be gravel. I should be screaming. I should not be rewarded for what I did.

After a few moments deliberation I notice the smell and can't help myself.

I don't even bother chewing. The steak is bloody - what's the term, rare? - and my beastial side with the red eyes is captivated by the flavour.

The steak is gone too quickly but I feel warm and satisfied. I should be cold and miserable. A little pill sits just out of my reach. It can make my arms go back to feeling normal. To get it I just need to give my agreement. It doesn't matter how tempting it looks, though, I know what would happen if I agreed, and I know I can't let it happen.

... _God, I want it._


	18. Recap (1)

Bug awoke slowly, as he always did when he had been drugged asleep. The surface he was lying on was far too soft to be the lab, so he must have been moved to his quarters. That was odd.

He rubbed at his eyes and sat up, trying to take comfort in his soft bed but feeling off.

He looked up, hoping to be reassured by Sam's calm expression. Instead he was greeted by a large crowd of strangers, all staring at him expectantly.

He forced down all the emotion he could, not wanting to give anything away. Despite that, he knew he was sitting too stiffly, and he felt the stretching sensation that meant that his eyes were changing colour.

He knew something was very, very wrong - Lightfall agents would never act this way around him, knowing that he was a lethal weapon with unstable mental faculties.

He decided to stay silent - not that he had a choice in that - and observe, at least for the moment.

He mentally prepared himself for the possibility of torture in his future.

The group seemed to notice his unease. They moved so that they no longer crowded him, but he still felt boxed in by their close presence. A person sat on either side of him, a man and a woman, the former with an arm around his shoulders. Bug suspected that this was meant to be comforting rather than constricting, but it failed.

The group spoke among themselves, ignoring him, and Bug was able to calm himself, although his skin crawled with the need to shove these people away and start running. Slow feels breaths gave him two things - a slower heart-rate and a confirmed theory. His collar was missing.

A rush flooded through him at that. If he was quick, he could escape from these people, and from Lightfall, and be free forever.

However, these people were obviously the ones who has removed it and so far they hadn't threatened him or anything of the sort...they could be allies. Even if they weren't, he could still run later.

He waved away his doubts by reminding himself that he needed help to free Sam, and by promising himself that he would leave at the slightest hint of trouble.

As he came to this conclusion, a bell sounded somewhere and the group stood in unison. Bug sat still as they left him, unsure of what he was meant to do.

"C'mon, Pete, pizza." The man who had sat too closely to him pulled him up and dragged him to where that were sitting, guiding him to a chair between a muscled blond and a goateed man.

Bug sat, trying to decipher what the man had said. An informal phrase, a name, a familiar word. Eventually he came to the conclusion that the name was his, or at least, it was what they wanted to call him, but he couldn't remember what the word meant - not until someone commented on the "good pizza" while gesturing to their food, and it clicked.

One of them passed some onto the plate in front of him, but he didn't quite trust them or this food, as he'd never eaten anything other than cardboard-tasting rations and the grey mush that had masqueraded as food in training.

And, once, a steak. The thought of it made him want to vomit.

When they'd finished they noticed that he'd eaten nothing. Bug waited to see how they would react. If there was something bad in the food, they would insist that he ate it.

"Pete." That damn name again, this time from the blond on his right. "You've not said a word all night. Are you okay?"

That was unexpected. And comforting.

Then one of them touched him.

Bug pulled away immediately, instincts forcing his features into a glare, which he turned in the goateed man, who had touched his shoulder.

The man looked sufficiently apologetic so Bug was willing to let it go. He looked at the table, trying to keep himself calm and figure out how to handle the situation.

The woman in front of him started speaking slowly: "Look, we're all a bit worried about you." She received no reaction, but continued anyway. "You're quiet and you haven't eaten. I know that a lot will have happened to you-" you don't know anything- "I know that you want to sort it out. I know that you might not want to talk about it yet. That's fine."

Bug couldn't help being slightly reassured by her, but forced himself to be careful. A few nice words shouldn't earn his trust, it was quite likely that she was trying to manipulate him.

She kept talking. "We just want you to know that we're here. Okay?"

Bug didn't want to give her the satisfaction of a response. People actually wanting to help him would just be too good to be true. He kept his mouth shut, as he couldn't say anything anyway.

"Peter?" Would these damn people make up their minds about his name? Questions about _that_ were bubbling under the surface - _did these people know him before?_ \- but he refrained from thinking about any of it. It was too confusing trying to figure out if they were friends or liars and his _instincts_ were suggesting he kill them all and run away quickly.

"Peter, look at me."

 _Stop calling me that and_ no _, I won't._ Bug decided that it was time to go. He just needed to decide whether or not to kill these people, and was disappointed with himself dithering over the subject. He killed everyone - why should these people be any different?

She took his chin gently. Bug managed not to tense and let her guide his face upwards so that his eyes could meet hers. He didn't look at her and felt his _instincts_ stretching his eyes in warning as they began to take over.

She remained calm and careful in response to the warning.

Her friend, however did not.

"Pete, would you quit being such an asshole?"

Bug decided he was done right then. His instincts roared in his mind, but he forced them from taking control and instead flowed with them, leaping across the table to grasp the man's neck and dig in claws that his _instincts_ gifted to him.

His _instincts_ buzzed in his head right before he was pulled away from the man by the muscled blond. He flipped, focussing on keeping his instincts from taking full control - if he let them in charge things could get messy, and he needed this to be done quickly. He couldn't change without risking giving his instincts more control, so he stuck with just using his claws, agility, a meagre portion of strength, his sticky skin and his venom. He wasn't concerned by his weak state as these people were taken by surprise, and none of then looked to be particularly skilled.

Except for the woman who tried to manipulate him.

He targeted her once the blond was down, slashing at her face with his hands while targeting her undefended belly with his feet. She was down within seconds.

He leapt for the weakest of them, planning to have him done quickly and create an emotional imbalance among the group - they were clearly close-knit, and would not take well to his violent death.

He regretted his decision a second after making it.

The man changed, just as he could, but faster, and had him pinned before he realised what was happening. He struggled beneath one massive green hand, which covered his entire torso and held it onto the table. Nothing he did seemed to harm the man, and his struggles didn't shift him an inch.

Panic flooded his mind at the sight of a needle. If they got him with that, he'd be defenceless. His instincts took over in his fear, but, before they could do anything, he felt a prick in his neck and his muscles relaxed. There was nothing he could do but surrender to the darkness.

When the teen woke the second time he was greeted by wary figures, the closest of which was more than a metre away. They were speaking to him. A cuff around his wrist fixed his arm to his chair, but gave him mostly free movement.

He noticed none of this, as he was too focused on the cold feeling of metal around his neck and the cold feeling in his blood of his missing powers.

He had known it would happen eventually. In all honesty, he was used to the collar, to the slightly stiff feeling of being seperated from his only defence. To being helpless.

He was even used to being terrified of imminent pain. Why else would they keep him like this, ready for torture? Absentmindedly, he ran his nails across the bare skin of his left forearm, drawing blood and reminding himself that Lightfall could cause far worse pain than these people, that he couldn't give into their demands no matter what.

He knew firsthand that they would do whatever it took to assure his loyalty. He knew that each scrap of information forced out of him was another hour of pain.

He knew that if he got it in his head that these people could offer him anything outside of his work for Lightfall they would take away the only thing he had made out of his life - his memory, and so, his Sam. Lightfall didn't know about Sam but he would lose him all the same, and that terrified him far more than anything else.

However, at that moment, he wasn't worried about Sam. It was the sinking feeling of knowing that giving in to the pain would only equal more pain that scared him most of all.

"Pete, are you even listening?"

The strangers were still trying to appear beneign. Bug kept scratching his wrists, trying to focus on what would happen to him if he told them anything.

Words floated in the air around him, calm and soothing, but he knew what they were doing. They seemed nice, but in the end would cause him pain.

He considered speaking to them, but memories of pain flashed in his mind, so vivid he felt he was there.

He curled up into a ball and turned away from them, hoping the action would appease his reflex flashbacks. It didn't.

"Pete." The goateed man stood in front of him, but he barely noticed.

The man touched his shoulder, breaking into his flashbacks. Bug saw Overcast looming over him. He shoved and hissed at the man, hoping to scare him away. He felt his eyes stretching again.

The man sat next to him, a foot away. Bug appreciated the space.

"Nobody is angry with you. This isn't your fault. We can teach you to control this."

Bug growled in response. Did they think he didn't try to control the flashbacks? He knew the only way to get rid of them would be to wipe his memory again, and he wasn't in a hurry to do that.

"We're not moving until you at least respond to us."

Bug curled up tighter, looking away from them. If he tried to speak the flashbacks would just get worse, he knew that from experience. And anyway, he didn't want to speak to these people.

"Pete, just say something, one word, and then we're done with this, okay?"

The man's pleading tone just sounded so genuine. Bug briefly wondered if maybe be really did want to help.

He turned to look at the man, careful not to show any emotion.

"We only want to help you, Peter." The man offered him his hand.

For a moment, Bug indulged in imagining that the man was telling the truth. That he really could be safe from Lightfall. He opened his mouth to speak, but his muteness leapt into his mind, along with every other terrible thing that had happened to him. If these people really wanted to help him, shouldn't they have done so before now, instead of leaving him to Lightfall's wrath?

He turned away, bitterness curling in his stomach. These people didn't actually want to _help_ him, they just wanted _him_.

"Okay, kid, we can try again tomorrow. We're gonna watch a movie now, you wanna join in?"

 _What's a movie?_

"You seem pretty tired, do you want to go to bed?"

Bug shrugged - he wasn't tired, but he didn't want to be near these people.

The muscled blond uncuffed him and led him to a spacious room with a large bed. Bug had never seen the luxury, but the lived in feel of the room suggested that it was his - this was either another manipulation or this really had been his room.

The blond was saying something in that same reassuring voice. Bug ignored him, waiting to see if he'd leave him alone.

The man did, and Bug found himself with free space in a comfortable area. He tried to recall if that had happened before.

He gave in to his desire to explore quickly. He went through everything he could see. He searched every drawer and overturned every article of furniture. He was half curious, half looking for a weapon. When he was done with the room he went through a door in the far wall that led to a room with a shower and a toilet. A quick search of the place showed him a razor.

With that came an idea.

These people probably didn't know how far he would go to escape. Bug had tried this escape before, but been caught and punished harshly enough that he didn't want to try it again.

If he was quick enough...

Without a second thought he grabbed the razor and cut through his left wrist. He winced at the pain that shot through him, but ignored it. He'd been in far worse pain than that before. Trying not to think about what he was about to do, he cut another line, and another, and another.

He flashed back to Overcast doing the same thing to him.

Instead of scaring him into submission, the memory spurred him on to cut more lines, knowing that if he succeeded he would never have to face Overcast again.

A splintering sound shattered his moment of happiness.

Bug turned to see them enter and panic flashed through him. _Shitshitshit_ he's been caught. He covered his wrists with lines, trying to bleed out before they could rescue him.

And then punish him.

Big blondie forced his razor-wielding hand down, pinning it to the floor. Bug fought, but the man was much stronger than him.

The goateed man held him in some sort of confusing lock - Bug wasn't sure how it was meant to work or why the man would think it was effective. The man kept muttering things, almost hysterical (his bosses would be really pissed if they let Bug die, the assassin guessed).

Bug did what he could to throw them off and finish what he'd started, but his strength was waning. Small-large-green-man appeared, sticking a needle in his neck and the world when dark once again.

 **Hey sorry it's a day late. I'm now gonna do longer chapters every two weeks because I feel like it. Please review. Bye**


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